


An Unexpected Journey

by RisalSoran



Category: A Stitch in Time - Star Trek Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Claustrophobia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s05e14 In Purgatory's Shadow, Post-Episode: s05e15 By Inferno's Light, Self-Harm, Star Trek: Just in Time Fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 26,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29306367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisalSoran/pseuds/RisalSoran
Summary: En route back to Deep Space Nine from Internment Camp 371, the USS Rubicon is hit by a temporal wave, and Garak, Bashir, Worf, General Martok, and Major Shuraiel of the Tal Shiar are sent back in time to the end of the Cardassian Occupation of Bajor and Terok Nor.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28
Collections: Star Trek: Just in Time Fest





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: 
> 
> Thanks to Gamtana'talan for his thoughtful suggestions, willingness to share his knowledge of Jem'Hadar ships and weaponry, and critique of the battle scenes herein. All mistakes are, of course, my own! 
> 
> Languages: 
> 
> “Federation Standard” (in quotes)
> 
> “Kardasi” (in quotes and italics)
> 
> << >> tlhIngan Hol (in double angle brackets)
> 
> < > Rihan (in angle brackets)

Languages:

“Federation Standard”

“ _Kardasi”_

<<tlhIngan Hol>>

< Rihan>

**Part 1: Escape from Internment Camp 371**

**Chapter 1: Prologue**

Working by feel almost as much as by sight in the dim crawl space, Garak pried open the next relay switch in the series and began the painstaking process of re-wiring it to send its segment of the message to the runabout.

The barracks outside the crawl space were silent. The sounds of angry voices, combat, disruptor fire – gone. No one spoke. There was no sound of approaching Jem'Hadar footsteps.

Not yet, but there would be soon.

He finished the modification of the switch. No time to replace the cover.

One more wire. He disconnected it and pulled it around … but it wouldn't move. The wire wasn't long enough to reach its new destination. Garak pulled the wire out – too hard. His elbow collided with the wall behind him. All the walls immediately seemed to press in tighter. Any moment, he would be crushed – and there was no air!

 _Not_ now, _Garak. Focus!_

His hands were shaking, his lungs struggling to draw in enough of the stale air.

 _Focus!_ Garak pulled the wire around on the other side of a coupling and tried again. This time, the wire reached its destination. He connected it.

All that remained was to connect the transmitter to the power grid.

Assuming he'd wired all the circuits he'd just finished correctly.

There was no time to double check, but less time for error. He activated the light and looked over all five of the circuits … yes. All were wired correctly, and connected securely.

 _Now to get out of here!_ Garak reached for the transmitter's connector and attached it to the power supply. The indicator light lit up. _“Got it!”_ he said.

The transporter activated.

For a horrible moment, he couldn't move. Couldn't _breathe._

Everything faded to blackness.

And then he was back, memories and body intact, out of the accursed crawl space. On the runabout, beside Worf and Martok. Facing the viewport. He could see _space,_ and distant stars.

But there was no time to waste.

He stepped off the transporter pad. The two Klingons did so as well.

As soon as the pad was clear, Doctor Bashir and the female Romulan materialized in their place.

The transporter went silent.

Garak scanned the camp. There was no sign of the male Romulan or the Breen.

Perhaps they had been killed by the disruptor fire he'd heard from inside the crawl space.

He deactivated the scanners and transporter – it would not do to allow any remaining Romulans or Breen from elsewhere in the camp to be beamed aboard – and took the pilot's seat.

Quickly, he entered an access code and activated the impulse engines. Not taking the time to lay in a course, he manually turned the runabout and accelerated, leaving the internment camp behind.

The buzzing anxiety that told him to _get out and get away, now,_ had not vanished with the transporter beam. The crushing sensation of walls pressing in on him was less pronounced in the relatively spacious runabout, but it was still present. His heart was still racing, and his hands weren't entirely steady.

They were still too close to the Jem'Hadar facility. _Much_ too close.

There were voices around him.

No matter. He ignored them. He pressed the controls to accelerate the ship to full impulse, and began the process of powering up the warp engines.

One of the voices called his name.

Commander Worf.

Garak froze. He did _not_ need a lecture on his failings now; on how he almost got them all killed, as Tain had predicted.

Nor did he need the humiliation of seeing the evidence of what the Starfleet Klingon warrior had faced over the last … how long had it been? The time had seemed interminable, but it could not have been more than a few weeks; perhaps only days.

Commander Worf had valiantly battled one Jem'Hadar soldier after another, despite what must have been, and must still be, quite painful injuries. Broken ribs, countless bruises, cuts still visible on his face, perhaps other injuries he concealed.

All the while, _he_ had been almost completely defeated by nothing more than cramped working conditions. Yes, the lighting had been unpredictable. Yes, there had been little ventilation, and the exposed wiring did have an unfortunate tendency to emit unpredictable electrical shocks, but that was nothing compared to the daily battering Worf had stoically endured.

He attempted to school his features into a calm, neutral expression, and turned to look at Worf.

“You did well,” Worf said, solemnly and sincerely. His respectful gaze and tone and complimentary words were not at all what Garak expected.

There was no time at the moment to puzzle out the implications of _that._

Instead, he inclined his head in respectful acknowledgment. “So did you,” he replied.

Worf returned the gesture, and allowed General Martok and the Romulan to assist him to the back.

Garak turned back to his panel and checked the readouts. The warp engines were active and operating within acceptable parameters.

Doctor Bashir approached and stood behind him, looking over his shoulder at the controls. “Take us to maximum warp, Garak. We've got to get a message to the station.”

Garak nodded. He pressed the controls, and the runabout accelerated to Warp 1... 2 ... 3. 

He scanned the vicinity for other ships while Dr. Bashir prepared his message to Deep Space Nine.

The sensors detected no ships at all.

No Jem'Hadar ship caught them in its tractor beam. None fired upon them.

There was no sign of pursuit. No sign of any Jem'Hadar ships at all.

Garak initiated long-range scans for neutrinos and any other sign of active cloaking devices.

Nothing.

Only their runabout, racing away at maximum warp now.

Dr. Bashir finished his message to Deep Space Nine, sent it, and went to the back to treat Worf's injuries.

Still no sign of pursuit.

* * *

Garak scanned the area again, and again.

Still nothing.

That was … disconcerting. There should be Jem'Hadar ships near the internment camp. They should have been deployed following their escape. Surely their escape had been noted and reported!

Yet almost three hours after their escape, as they neared the nebula where he and Worf were captured, there was still no sign of pursuit.

Garak gave the nebula a wide berth, constantly monitoring the sensor data from passive as well as active scans of the area.

Nothing. No fighters, no Jem'Hadar ships big enough to dwarf Galor-class war ships.

There was no sign of any ship at all, other than their own runabout.

Garak laid in a course for the wormhole and activated the auto-pilot. He continued scanning the surrounding space. The sensors detected several asteroids, none populated, and a small concentration of hydrogen gas.

Still no ships.

As time passed, pursuit began to seem less and less likely, and Garak began to find his attention drifting. He had been piloting for little more than three and a half hours, but the interminable days of alternately working in the crawl space and freezing in the barracks, dreading the necessity of going back in again, were catching up to him.

He needed to rest. Needed to _sleep._

He should turn over the controls to someone else and at least attempt to sleep, as unlikely as that scenario was, considering what constituted beds on the runabout.

But there was no one else. Doctor Bashir was occupied with treating Commander Worf's wounds. The only other people on board were General Martok and the Romulan. They had proven their trustworthiness at the prison camp, but they could hardly be entrusted with the piloting of a Federation craft.

Garak sighed. He could not relinquish command of the bridge yet, but he had little choice but to rest for a while. He made sure all the alarms were set for audio as well as visual alerts.

There was nothing else to do.

He leaned back in the seat and allowed himself to close his eyes.

* * *

He was back in the internment camp, trapped within the crawl space of Barracks 6.

“ _You've doomed us all,”_ Tain's voice said.

Tain stood beside him, watching scornfully as Garak tried to ignore the smallness of the space and the lack of air, tried to maintain enough control to focus on his simple, albeit time-consuming, task. _“If there's room for me to work in here, which I assure you there_ is, _there's_ plenty _of room for you.”_

But there _wasn't_ enough room. The walls pressed in on him from every side, crumbling into dust and rubble.

Trapping him.

He couldn't move.

There was no air!

Gasping, Garak opened his eyes. For a disconcerting moment, he didn't know where he was. Only that there was no rubble, no dust.

Not Tzenketh, then, or that dreadful tunnel in Doctor Bashir's holosuite program.

He forced himself to slow his breathing, to take a deep breath.

After a few tries, he succeeded.

The air cleared his mind, a little.

He looked around. Of course. He was on the runabout. The _USS Rubicon_. Traveling at maximum warp toward the distant wormhole and Deep Space Nine.

Far, now, from Internment Camp 371.

Garak turned his attention to his panel, the viewports in front, the viewscreens. He did _not_ want to fall asleep again. Instead, he busied himself by running every scan he could think of. He manually monitored the proximity sensors, the engine status, and the runabout's speed, regularly checked the readouts for the runabout's constant passive scans, searching for everything from asteroids to subspace messages to unusual concentrations of a variety of chemical elements and compounds, and continued scanning, constantly, for any sign of pursuit by the Jem'Hadar or the presence of any other ship in the vicinity.

He paused only to replicate a cup of tea – a not entirely unpleasant facsimile of red leaf, delightfully warm in the chill of the Federation ship – before returning to his work.

The work served its purpose. It kept him awake and it kept his mind off … other things. For the most part.

His hands trembled, just a little, and his head throbbed with the almost inevitable stress-induced headache, as well as the residual ache from the Jem'Hadar soldier's blow, but those were only minor inconveniences.

He was in control of himself again, fulfilling his duty to bring the runabout and its passengers and crew back to the Alpha Quadrant.


	2. Chapter 2

Julian turned off the dermal regenerator and looked at his patient. Worf's eyes were still narrowed in pain, but he was breathing easier.

“I've done all I can, Commander,” Julian announced. Except provide an analgesic, but he knew without asking what the Klingon's response would be, if he suggested that. “I've repaired your ribs and all the underlying vascular and dermal damage, but you will need to rest to allow for a complete recovery. You'll be a little stiff and sore for probably a few days.”

“I understand. Thank you, Doctor,” Worf said. He sat up carefully and nodded. “That _is_ much better.”

“I'm glad to hear it. Now why don't you get something to eat and drink, and get some rest.”

Worf nodded. “Very well.” He replicated a large prune juice, and sat, without complaint, on the biobed to drink it.

“Thank you,” Julian said, turning to go. “I'll be on the bridge.”

“No, Doctor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Worf finished his juice and disposed of the cup before answering. “Doctor, you have been working for almost four hours consecutively, as well as much of the last seven days. You also need to rest. I will relieve Garak on the bridge.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Julian said. The idea of a hot tea and a meal, followed by actual sleep, was appealing, but his responsibilities came first. “But I cannot rest yet. I need to check on him, and on General Martok. They both have untreated injuries. I don't know if Major Shuraiel was injured, but I need to find that out as well.”

“Of course. You have your duties, but I also have mine. It is my duty, not Garak's, to command the bridge.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. You're right. And Garak can certainly use the opportunity to rest. Thank you, Commander.”

“You are welcome.” Worf turned and made his way toward the front of the runabout.

Julian hesitated for a moment. He needed to check on Garak. The tailor had to be exhausted, and he might still be experiencing some pain from the blow to his head Worf had mentioned while telling of his and Garak's capture. But Worf would notice if anything were truly amiss, and General Martok had injuries that required treatment. If, of course, he would allow such treatment.

General Martok and Major Shuraiel both looked up when Julian entered the room.

<<How is Worf?>> Martok asked immediately.

“He's fine. I've repaired his ribs and other injuries. He'll be a little sore for a few days. Now it's your turn, General. I'm sure you've got more than a few injuries of your own.”

Martok barely hesitated. <<That is true.>>

“May I treat them?”

<<The fractures, yes. Do not touch the scars.>>

“I understand, General. Now, if you would ...” Julian gestured toward the medical bay.

Martok nodded politely at the Romulan, who returned the gesture.

<<I am ready,>> Martok acknowledged. He followed Julian to the medical bay.


	3. Chapter 3

There were no Starfleet officers present on the bridge. Garak sat in the pilot's seat with no supervision. However, he seemed to be working diligently, piloting the ship, observing their surroundings through the viewport, and monitoring his panel.

Worf took the co-pilot's seat and pulled up the mission log.

Bashir had sent a message to the station. That was good. And the ship was en route back to the wormhole.

Worf glanced at the time stamp on Bashir's entry in the mission log. It had been made immediately after their departure, by Dr. Bashir. Hours ago. None had been made since.

Perhaps Garak was unfamiliar with Starfleet documentation procedures, or perhaps he assumed that it was not his duty to update Starfleet logs.

Very well.

“Garak. Report,” Worf said.

The Cardassian looked at him. He seemed … surprised.

Perhaps he was not accustomed to being addressed as if he were a member of a Starfleet crew. However, he was serving as one at the moment. He must be treated as one, and he must learn to act as one.

“Report!” Worf repeated. He glowered disapprovingly at the Cardassian. A Starfleet officer, commissioned or acting, must be prepared to respond promptly to any questions asked by his commanding officer.

Garak tilted his head and smiled. “We will reach the Idran System in approximately four point seven hours, Commander,” he said in a voice so … _polite_ it sounded almost Ferengi.

Worf ignored his tone. “Good,” he said simply.

The Cardassian dropped the smile. “Scans have detected no sign of pursuit, nor any sign at all of Dominion ships.”

“That is strange,” Worf said. “The Jem'Hadar are aware of our escape. Why have they not sent ships to pursue us?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Commander. I have no idea.” Garak turned back to his panel. It appeared that he had already lost interest in speaking.

That was unusual. Garak usually talked too much. He told lies and complained about many irrelevant things.

Now, he sat, silent, focused on his work.

It was an improvement. But it could also be a sign that the Cardassian was … unwell.

At the moment, Garak was acting as a member of his crew. _He_ must act as his commanding officer.

“I will take the bridge, Garak. You may return to your quarters – ”

“That will _not_ be necessary!” Garak voice lashed out, tight and furious. His eyes were narrowed slits of icy fire.

That was not a reaction Worf had expected. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I am perfectly fine!”

That was an obvious lie. The Cardassian did not look well. He was very pale, and his hands were trembling. However, he clearly did not wish to be relieved of duty.

Worf could understand that. “Very well,” he said.

Garak snapped his attention back to his panel, but he seemed to be struggling to maintain his focus. He was shivering, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.

He looked as he had looked when Dr. Bashir pulled him out of the crawl space.

Perhaps this was more than a desire to not be relieved of duty. Perhaps it was a reaction to the idea of the quarters themselves. They were … quite small.

“Garak.”

“What.” The word was barely audible. Flat. Disinterested.

“Rest here. I will let you know when you are needed again,” Worf offered.

Garak turned and stared at him. Then he nodded. “Very well.”

The Cardassian looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he said nothing.

“Garak?” Worf questioned.

“I … it is … it is _cold_ in here.”

“There are blankets in the equipment compartment behind the bridge,” Worf replied.

Garak nodded and went to get one.

Worf accessed the environmental control system and input a command to raise the temperature by seven degrees.

Garak returned to the pilot's seat, this time wearing a blanket around his shoulders like a cloak. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.

Worf turned his attention back to his panel.

There was still no sign of Jem'Hadar pursuit. That did not make sense. Unless … perhaps the Jem'Hadar intended a trap, instead.

The Jem'Hadar fleet was no longer hidden within the nebula. They had passed it long ago.

But it could be hidden somewhere else.

He must remain vigilant.


	4. Chapter 4

“I can't repair your eye,” Julian said.

General Martok's expression told him in no uncertain terms that he was already aware of that.

“Back on the station, I can give you a prosthetic, but there's nothing else I can do here. I've repaired everything I can, except the scars. I left them alone.”

Martok smiled. <<As I expected and insisted, Doctor.>>

Julian shook his head. “I'll never understand _why_ –” he began.

<<I earned my scars in battle, Doctor! Why would I wish to hide them?>>

“No reason, I suppose. They are … distinctive.”

<<Indeed they are!>> the General declaimed with obvious pride.

“I suppose I should offer you bloodwine to celebrate, but I'm afraid we haven't any.”

<<That is not a concern.>>

Julian led the way toward the dining area. “You are welcome to anything the replicator can make, and to the emergency rations. We've got plenty of those.”

<<Excellent! Provisions were not plentiful in Internment Camp 371, as you well know. I am hungry enough I could eat an entire _targ!_ I am hungry enough that I would eat a tribble with _taqnar_ gizzards!>>

Julian laughed. “I'm sure the replicator can do better than that!”

Martok grinned. <<Major! Food awaits!>> he announced, striding across the small room to the replicator.

The Romulan raised an eyebrow. <<Indeed,>> she said simply.

“You're welcome to anything the replicator can make,” Julian said. “But first, are you in need of medical care?”

<That will not be necessary. I am not injured.>

“All right. That's good,” Julian said. “The replicator is at your disposal.”

Shuraiel inclined her head. <That, I appreciate, Doctor.> She rose and went to take her turn at the replicator, from which Martok had finished replicating a tray of several different kinds of food.

Julian wished he could join them, but his duty was not yet done. Worf would have mentioned if he noticed a need for medical attention, but Garak wasn't exactly forthcoming about his well-being. Julian needed to check on him before he could relax with a cup of hot Tarkalean tea and a good meal. Or, in this case, an acceptable meal. Something replicated, or emergency rations.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he said, and turned to go.

* * *

All was quiet on the bridge. Worf was in command, monitoring the sensor readings.

Garak sat beside him in the pilot's seat, wrapped in a blanket, his eyes closed.

Julian looked askance at the Klingon. He always seemed so … _formal_. Julian would have expected him to object to such informality on the bridge.

Worf apparently sensed his curiosity. “The runabout is on auto-pilot. I am monitoring. There is no sign of Jem'Hadar pursuit.” He dropped his voice to a less stentorian rumble. “The quarters on this ship are not suitable for him,” he said with a nod in Garak's direction.

 _Of course._ The quarters on the runabout would be small for a single occupant, let alone for the two for which each room was designed. What was probably worse, the beds were recessed bunks with no room to sit up. Even if Garak could tolerate them under more typical circumstances, which perhaps he could, after his ordeal over the last few days, “unsuitable” was probably quite an understatement.

“I understand,” Julian said. He looked closer at Garak.

Garak was not, as he had first assumed, asleep. He was much too tense, and he was shivering despite the blanket and the runabout's slightly warmer than usual temperature.

“Garak?”

Garak opened his eyes and turned to look at Julian. “Yes, Doctor?” he asked politely.

Something about Garak's eyes caught Julian's attention.

His expression was as politely interested as ever, but there was a … flicker, a hesitancy, in his focus that didn't seem quite right.

Julian took out his medical scanner.

“I _beg_ your pardon, Doctor!” Garak said, in his most affronted manner.

“Sorry, Garak. You're part of a Starfleet crew at the moment, and it's my duty to ensure its members are fit for duty.”

Garak raised his eye-ridges.

“As fit for duty as possible,” Julian amended. “We're all tired, of course, and we all could do with some rest.”

Garak sighed, but he offered a slight nod.

Julian ran the scanner over him. “Garak, you have a concussion!” he said incredulously.

“Ah. I suspected as much.”

“How?” Garak hadn't said anything about any injury, and he'd been rewiring and reprogramming the transmitter Tain had made the whole time they were in the prison camp. _He_ wasn't the one fighting the Jem'Hadar!

“A … _souvenir_ … from our most gracious hosts.”

“When the Jem'Hadar captured us, one of them realized Garak talks too much,” Worf spoke up.

“It is most unfortunate. So many people come to that conclusion,” Garak said with such exaggerated sarcasm that Julian suspected he was covering a truth.

 _That's what most people think about me, too._ “I don't think you talk too much, Garak,” Julian said aloud.

Garak stared at him. He didn't seem to be trying at all to hide his astonishment.

Julian wasn't sure why he was so surprised. They'd been talking together over lunch for almost four and a half years now. Of course he didn't think Garak talked too much!

 _It doesn't matter, Julian,_ he told himself firmly. _You have a patient._ He pulled out a portable regenerator and ran it over Garak's head, repairing the underlying damage. Thinking back to what Garak had said the first time he was shut in the crawl space, Julian remembered him mentioning "random electrical shocks". “Garak, let me see your hands,” Julian said.

Garak didn't protest, though he did close his eyes again.

Julian looked at the electrical burns marring Garak's hands, and sighed. Garak also hadn't seen fit to mention those.

He ran the regenerator over those as well.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Garak said when he finished.

Julian wasn't sure if it was his previous words or the medical treatment Garak was thanking him for. _It doesn't matter,_ he decided. “You're quite welcome,” he said simply. “Do you need an analgesic?”

“No.”

This time it was Julian's turn to be surprised. Just a simple, calm, direct answer? No snappish anger, no sarcastic comment about the superior Cardassian constitution that made such trivialities unnecessary? Julian opened his mouth to ask, and thought better of it.

Garak's eyes were closed. Julian didn't think he was asleep, but he had stopped shivering, and he seemed a bit less tense.

Good. He could use the rest.

 _So can you, Julian._ “I'm gonna get something to eat and a few hours' sleep. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Garak said again.

Worf nodded his acknowledgment.

* * *

Julian stopped at the replicator for a cup of hot Tarkalean tea and a plate of _hasperat_ before retiring to his quarters. He ate his meal in silence, except for the steady thrum of the warp drive and the hiss of the ventilation system.

The tea was good. So was the food. But it was odd, eating a full meal alone. He hadn't eaten alone since he got out of the isolation cell, and what he was given there was decidedly not anything he would consider a full meal.

He should be sharing what he had with his cell-mates. Of course, he knew, intellectually, they had plenty of food of their own. The replicators could make everything they needed. Not necessarily everything they wanted. The replicators probably didn't have many Cardassian recipes. They had a few Klingon and Vulcan recipes. No Romulan, as far as he knew, but probably Shuraiel could eat Vulcan or Human food. Regardless, there was plenty on the runabout for everyone to eat. No one had need of his meal.

It still felt odd.

And it was almost _too_ quiet.

Julian liked the respite from the sounds of combat. No one was about to cause someone an injury he'd have to examine, diagnose, and wish he could treat. He _could_ treat people's injuries now. He might not have the resources of a complete infirmary like the one on Deep Space Nine, but on the runabout he had more than a few salvaged bandages. He had his medical tricorder again, and regenerators, hyposprays, and medications. And this time, every one of his patients had allowed themselves to be treated. Even Garak! He was not happy about it, of course, but he'd barely protested.

After his meal, Julian lay down on his bed, thinking how very much Garak would not appreciate the design.

Sleep did not come at once. His mind was too full of recent events. The abbreviated medical conference. The camp. The need to treat serious injuries and terminal congestive heart failure with entirely inadequate supplies and no medications. The interminable time spent in isolation. Garak's shock when he saw him. His realization that he had been replaced. Garak, stubbornly refusing to give up on his efforts to rescue them all, despite his debilitating claustrophobia. And his eventual success. His own replacement on the station, doing who knew what, with no one the wiser.

Finally, he drifted off, into a restless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

The runabout raced steadily toward the wormhole, approaching the Idran system.

An alert sounded, and Garak glanced at his panel. “Commander. Sensors are showing evidence of warp trails,” he announced.

“Sensors do not indicate the presence of any ships,” Worf said.

“Not at the moment.” Garak looked up at the viewport. “Commander.”

Worf followed his gesture. “Behind the stars.”

“Most likely.”

“Raise shields.”

“Acknowledged.”

Worf tapped his combadge. “Bashir to the bridge.”

“On my way!” A moment later, Doctor Bashir ran onto the bridge, medical bag and tricorder in hand.

“Doctor. It is likely there are Jem'Hadar ships lying in wait behind one or more of the Idranian stars.”

“I see,” Bashir said. He glanced at Garak and set down his bag and tricorder. Oddly, he looked … relieved.

Garak wondered for a moment whether he should feel gratified by the doctor's indication of concern for his well-being or annoyed that he had obviously assumed that whatever medical emergency he had expected must have involved him.

 _That is not relevant now,_ Garak told himself firmly. He turned his attention from the aggravating doctor and initiated another scan.

The runabout raced toward the first of the two blue-white Idranian stars, dwarfed by the supergiant behind them, and swung around, leaving sufficient distance to avoid the stars' gravitational pull and provide them with the opportunity to withdraw if the hidden fleet was more than the runabout could successfully evade.

The runabout passed the first blue-white star. As it approached the second, a trio of Jem'Hadar fighters emerged, with their shields up and weapons armed.

“Lock on phasers!” Worf commanded, just as a war ship and a second trio of fighters emerged behind the first, followed by two more war ships.

Garak pressed the controls as quickly as a Starfleet officer might. “Fore and starboard phasers locked.”

“Acknowledged,” Bashir said at the same time.

Worf nodded his approval.

The first three ships launched a volley of purple pulses of energy.

Garak sent the runabout hard to port and then into a vertical dive, evading the first attack.

“Fire phasers!”

“Acknowledged,” Bashir confirmed. Almost simultaneously, he and Garak initiated a salvo of phaser fire, deactivating the forcefield and raking the side of one fighter and brilliantly illuminating the intact forcefield of another.

The runabout shuddered with the impact of a direct disruptor hit.

“Shields are down to 57 percent,” Garak announced.

"Evasive maneuvers," Worf commanded. 

_Obviously._ Garak threw the runabout into another series of evasive maneuvers, successfully avoiding a volley of photon torpedoes along with the expected polaron energy pulses.

Another fighter dove toward the runabout, emitting a volley of energy pulses.

The runabout shuddered with the impact. Sparks flew from the station directly behind Garak.

The Cardassian flinched away.

“Fire phasers!” Worf ordered again.

Garak didn't move. He sat, staring behind him at the panel the sparks had come from.

Bashir launched the next salvo alone, this time taking out only the shields of one fighter.

“Garak!” Worf snapped. “Fire phasers!”

Garak started. He inclined his head in acknowledgment and turned back to his own panel. This time, he pressed the controls.

Phaser beams lanced toward the ships. One dissipated harmlessly to the side of a fighter as it swooped to the side. The other directly hit another fighter and ignited its power supply. A moment later, the fighter exploded in a brilliant firework.

Another hit shook the runabout, and an alarm sounded. “Shields are down!” Bashir called out.

“Acknowledged. Garak, target the ships to port. Doctor, starboard.”

Again, the doctor responded verbally while he and the tailor activated the phasers. Both hit their respective targets this time, but the phaser beams dissipated harmlessly into the ships' shields.

Garak piloted the runabout into a steep dive. The inertial dampers took a moment to catch up to the motion, but the engines otherwise functioned appropriately. He leveled out the runabout and maneuvered beneath the war ship.

On the far side, four Jem'Hadar fighters faced the runabout, from port and starboard, above and below, targeting its sides.

“Garak. Maintain the flight controls. I will operate the photon torpedoes and the fore and starboard phasers. Doctor?”

“Yes. I've got the port side.”

“Good.”

Worf targeted the nearest ship and activated the torpedo launcher, while Garak sent the runabout into an inverse parabola, rising above the fighters and dropping on the far side, completely avoiding a volley of Jem'Hadar energy bursts and bringing them within visual range of what awaited them on the other side – yet another trio of Jem'Hadar fighters.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 2: Through the Wormhole**

**Chapter 6**

The _USS Rubicon_ shuddered from an impact. Either the ship had collided with something, or it was engaged in battle.

Martok left the remainder of his meal behind and hurried to the bridge – the only suitable place to be at such a time.

On the viewscreen, a trio of Jem'Hadar swooped toward the ship from above, where they could not be seen through the viewport.

<<Worf! To the right!>> Martok called.

Worf adjusted his sensors, locked on, and fired.

At the same time, the Cardassian pressed several controls, and the _Rubicon_ leaped into a series of evasive maneuvers.

The _Rubicon_ swooped above and dove beneath the enemy ships like a _lotlhmoq_ hunting fish and shell squid. It raced away and whirled about, giving a perfect opportunity for the young doctor to rake across the ships with a splendid fountain of phaser fire. The shields on the closest fighter sizzled away into nothingness – leaving a gap for Worf's torpedo to breach. The ship disappeared in a glorious explosion the likes of which Martok had not seen in far too many years.

The _Rubicon_ darted between two Jem'Hadar fighters and, at the last minute, dove beneath. One fighter ceased firing. The other's crew was not so fast. It launched a salvo of energy pulses directly at its own compatriot, taking it out in a second glorious explosion.

The _Rubicon_ was now half a light year ahead of the Jem'Hadar, alongside a cluster of thick dust and small asteroids. The Jem'Hadar ships remained visible on the display panels, but they were far behind – and out of range.

All of a sudden, the runabout shuddered. Martok whirled to inspect the viewscreen. He had seen nothing through the viewport.

“It is directly above,” Worf said, finding the attacking ship on his display.

“Understood,” Garak said. He accelerated in a sweeping curve, and then threw the ship into a another steep dive.

A volley of Jem'Hadar torpedoes passed harmlessly to the port side.

<<Well done!>> Martok exclaimed.

A moment later, Bashir activated the phasers. The phaser light flared against the shields of the nearest war ship, but the shield was not yet depleted. The light dimmed and the shield vanished from sight.

The _Rubicon_ shuddered again. Sparks flew from behind a panel on the starboard side, and the hum of the main power system ceased.

Martok looked at the viewscreens. A trio of fighters approached from the starboard side, directly in front of the cloud of asteroids and dust. <<Worf!>> he called. <<Starboard!>>

<<I see them,>> Worf growled.

Bashir's phasers illuminated the ship's forcefield. A moment later, the torpedo launcher activated, and the fighter disappeared in a brilliant flash of light.

A moment later, the fighter beside it launched a volley of energy pulses.

The runabout shuddered again. Sparks and a plume of smoke issued from another panel.

Bashir took out a fire suppressant device and sprayed a thick foam at the panel.

The sparks ceased.

The wormhole spiraled open off to starboard.

Garak turned the _Rubicon_ with what seemed like simple thrusters until it directly faced the glowing spiral.

The _Rubicon_ advanced toward it. The engines were inoperative, but momentum would carry them in – if the Jem'Hadar didn't stop them first.

The wormhole grew to fill the entire viewport with brilliant spiraling clouds of blue and purple.

It was a magnificent sight!


	7. Chapter 7

A pair of Jem'Hadar ships approached from directly behind the runabout; another approached from the starboard side.

But the runabout was less than 200 kilometers from the wormhole.

It jolted to the side from yet another impact – but then they were inside.

The swirling light within was painfully bright. Garak closed his nictitating membranes and squinted, but otherwise ignored the brightness and focused on his display panel. He laid in the standard course through the wormhole, and activated it.

A proximity alarm sounded.

He looked up, startled.

Whatever the sensors had detected, he couldn't see it among the swirling lights of the wormhole.

He turned to the viewscreens.

Nothing.

“Computer, identify,” Bashir spoke up, pressing several controls on his control panel.

“A wave of chroniton particles is approaching, on a collision course,” the computer dispassionately replied.

Garak pressed the controls to re-activate the impulse drive.

Nothing.

The runabout was still moving at almost an eighth of its impulse speed.

“Computer … activate thrusters! Reverse at full power!” Garak tried.

The runabout began to slow.

The chroniton wave approached inexorably and invisibly, except on the sensor displays.

The runabout came to a stop, but there was no time for it to escape.

“Brace for impact!” Garak called out.

The chroniton wave slammed into the runabout.

Everything slowed. Garak's thoughts were moving as slowly as the vegetables in _aytlik_ broth. The grays and blacks of the runabout swirled around him, blending with the blues and purples of the wormhole outside the viewport. “Computer … initiate … autopilot,” he muttered, before everything went dark.


	8. Chapter 8

“Focus, Julian,” Bashir said aloud. “The … control … panel... Focus … on the … control … panel.”

Everything was … moving … so … slowly.

His eyes drifted closed.

He tried to open them.

It was so hard.

He knew why. Time distortion. From the chroniton wave.

“Focus!” he tried again.

His eyes drifted shut. He struggled to open them, to remain conscious.

He wasn't entirely sure if he succeeded, but when he opened his eyes again, the distortion was gone.

They were still inside the wormhole. The viewport was filled with kaleidoscopic patterns of colour, brightly illuminating the otherwise dimly lit runabout.

Worf sat in the co-pilot's seat, scowling dazedly at his control panel.

Garak sat beside him in the pilot's seat, silent and unmoving, his eyes closed.

“Garak?” Julian called.

Garak did not respond.

Bashir picked up his medical tricorder and ran a basic scan. He found nothing amiss other than mild dehydration and malnutrition, something they probably all suffered from after their time in the camp, and a slight swelling in the frontal lobe, approximately 3.75% smaller than the last scan had indicated.

Most likely, this was nothing more than a response to the chroniton wave.

“Worf? Are you all right?” Bashir asked.

“Yes. There is no sign of Jem'Hadar pursuit, but, we are running on auxiliary power. The warp nacelle has been breached, there are plasma leaks in three different sections of the impulse drive system, and there is substantial damage to the ship's electrical components. I have shut down the impulse drive and remotely activated forcefields to seal off the plasma leaks, but repairs must be effected before we can activate the system. I have also begun a diagnostic of the main power system to locate the specific areas of the electrical system that have been damaged. It should be ready within twenty-five minutes.”

Bashir sighed. “All right. Thank you, Commander.” He turned his attention to his own station. He was pleased to see that Garak had already laid in a course back through the wormhole to the Alpha Quadrant; the runabout was following that course, on residual momentum and an occasional automated course correction with the thrusters.

Julian leaned back in his seat, allowing Worf to monitor the ship as it traversed the wormhole.

Back to Deep Space Nine.

Where his … _replacement …_ had been doing who knows what.

Garak hadn't said much about … it. Neither had Worf.

Julian hadn't wanted to question either of them, what with everything else they'd been going through at the time.

Whatever it was the changeling had been up to, he was quite sure it wasn't good.

And nobody had noticed.

Well, _Garak_ hadn't noticed. But if _he_ hadn't noticed, that probably meant no-one else had, either. But how could Garak not have noticed he'd been replaced? They lunched together every single week! Had the changeling been watching him so long it knew exactly how to behave? What to say? How to respond to Garak's ludicrous arguments about the superiority of Cardassian culture and viewpoints over every single work of Human literature he'd ever read?

Or had it kept its distance, came up with excuses to avoid him, knowing Garak would notice something amiss if it got too close?

Bashir suspected that might be what had happened. Garak was too polite to argue about changes in their lunch plans. Whenever he'd had to cancel, Garak accepted without complaint. Inevitably, he'd make some sort of snide comment about Bashir's schedule at their next lunch, and then move on to the day's topic, usually a discussion of whatever literary work they'd read that week.

He'd have to ask Garak later, but he suspected that that was probably it. The changeling had imitated him well enough that Garak didn't notice anything amiss during simple, brief interactions. He would have noticed it wasn't really Julian if he'd spent much time with him.

Of course he would have noticed! Garak was incredibly observant. He noticed _everything_ around him. He noticed when Bashir was distracted or tired or simply not making his best possible arguments, and then Garak made even wilder arguments than usual – inevitably regaining Julian's attention.

Even when they weren't discussing literature, when Bashir was explaining some new medical procedure he'd performed or an archaeological discovery he'd read about or an upcoming conference he hoped to attend, Garak paid attention. He noticed what Julian said – and he listened without tapping the table or looking at a time piece or edging toward a door or all the things most people did when he started talking too much.

Garak would have noticed something was wrong if he'd spent any substantial time talking with the changeling. Because no matter how well the changeling imitated him, it would not be able to imitate his manner and duration of speaking.

Garak would have noticed something was different.

Wouldn't he?


	9. Chapter 9

Garak woke with a pounding headache and the disconcerting sensation of not knowing where he was or how he got there. He opened his eyes.

Fierce light stabbed through, and he closed his eyes, trying to stave off the imminent explosion.

He sat as still as possible.

_Breathe, Garak. Just breathe._

After an interminable moment, the oxygen cleared his mind, though it didn't touch the headache.

He cautiously opened his eyes, just enough to see the control panel in front of him, keeping his nictitating membranes firmly closed, though he knew that didn't actually help.

Footsteps pounded toward the cockpit. <<What happened?>> General Martok's stentorian voice crashed through his skull like the bomb through the window of the house on Tzenketh.

Garak cringed and squeezed his eyes shut again. _Not the best image, Garak_ , he chided himself. He forced his eyes open and tried to ignore the encroaching walls; tried to focus on the control panel in front of him.

“We hit a chroniton wave, or a chroniton wave hit us. I'm not entirely sure,” Bashir said. Fortunately, _his_ voice was much softer. “But we are out of the Gamma Quadrant. We're near the end of the wormhole, on the Alpha Quadrant side.”

<<Good,>> Martok said.

“Major Shuraiel? Is she all right?”

<<I think so. She seems to be … recovering.>>

“Oh! Yes, Romulans can go into a healing trance, just like Vulcans! That's good. Garak? Are _you_ all right?”

“ _Perfectly fine,_ Doctor.” Garak kept his eyes firmly fixed on the panel, trying to make sense of the whirling symbols and colors, ignoring the sensation that the walls and ceiling were rapidly closing in, certainly moments from crushing him entirely.

“No, you're not,” Bashir said.

“ _I see no point to asking a question if you intend to entirely disregard the answer,”_ Garak complained. He kept his eyes slitted and focused on the panel, but he sensed the doctor looming over him, standing between him and the encroaching walls. Examining him. Noticing his every weakness.

Garak shuddered.

“If you would give me an honest answer, I'd have no reason to disregard it,” Bashir argued.

Garak had no answer for that.

“How bad is it?” Bashir asked after a long moment of silence.

“ _I … do not know,”_ Garak admitted. He stared at the control panel, as if that would make the whirling patterns coalesce into meaningful symbols.

“Your headache, not the sensor data,” Bashir clarified.

“ _Ah. Splendid, indeed!”_ Garak smiled brightly at the doctor and forced himself to completely open his eyes and nictitating membranes.

That was a mistake. The light stabbed into his brain with such intensity that everything faded to swirls of gray.

Involuntarily, he closed his eyes.

“Splendid,” Bashir echoed dubiously. “I see.”

A moment later, the cold pressure of a hypospray pressed into his neck, and the crushing pain gradually faded.

Evidently, the doctor did not believe Garak's less than skillful attempt at deflection.

Garak opened his eyes. Everything was still too bright, but it was … almost tolerable now.

More importantly, the whirling symbols of the control panel had coalesced into meaningful data, and he was able to raise his eyes enough to see the viewport ahead. It was still filled with the bright, swirling colors of the interior of the wormhole.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Bashir asked.

“ _You know what happened. You told Martok,”_ Garak said irritably.

“I know generally what happened, yes. Now I'm asking you. Did you notice anything I did not?”

Garak sighed. _“There was a chroniton wave, just inside the wormhole. The ship's power system was … inactive. I could not evade it.”_

Bashir raised his eyebrows. “Neither could I,” he pointed out.

“Nor I,” Worf spoke up.

“ _I was piloting the ship.”_

“And I was monitoring the sensors! Garak, it wasn't anyone's fault. We simply didn't have enough time to respond before it hit.”

“ _I … know,”_ Garak said. He felt his thoughts becoming sluggish. _“What … what did you give me,_ Doctor?” he asked vaguely.

“Something to help your headache, and to help you rest,” Bashir said. “Now, why don't you go lie down for a while? I'll take the con.”

An image of the monstrosity Bashir called “bunk beds” flashed through Garak's mind, and the walls of the bridge rapidly closed in.

Garak shuddered and closed his eyes. Any moment, he knew, the walls would collapse into dust and rubble, and he would be buried beneath.

Or maybe they already had. The air was quite thick and difficult to breathe.

“Garak!” Julian's voice called from somewhere far away.

“Hmm?”

“You're safe now, Garak.”

Well. That was hardly accurate.

No one could possibly be safe, buried beneath tons of rubble.

Such circumstances, he was quite sure, were remarkably _un_ safe.

Especially with such inadequate ventilation. Air was rather important. Necessary, as a matter of fact.

He rather wished he were able to obtain some at the moment.

The cold cylinder pressed on his neck again.

His dust-enshrouded mind cleared, a little. The tightness of his throat relaxed just enough to allow for a bit of air.

He gasped, taking in as much air as possible.

It was not enough. Everything was going gray and dim.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

Eventually, the medications took effect. The pressure on his throat and chest dissipated, and he was able to breathe properly again.

 _Open your eyes, Garak. You have work to do,_ he told himself.

But he was so tired. And the walls! He simply could not stand to watch them close in on him again.

“You're safe, Garak,” he heard Julian's voice say again. “Rest for a while, all right? Just … rest.”

That sounded like a … suitable plan.

Garak kept his eyes tightly closed. He tried to pretend he was back on Cardassia, in the Parlak Sector of Cardassia City. The grounds there were spacious. The red and purple and orange of the dawn sky illuminated the monuments and shrubs and Tolan's orchids.

It was quite beautiful.

He rather wished he were there now.

* * *

Julian's voice, speaking quietly to the computer, awakened him.

He had not intended to sleep. He still felt … not fully awake. His head ached, though the debilitating pain from before had not returned. His thoughts were sluggish. Unclear. Shrouded by insufficient sleep, or by residual medication, he did not know which.

But he was, essentially, awake.

Garak cautiously opened his eyes.

No brilliant light assaulted him. The runabout was comfortably lit only by the auxiliary lighting system.

They had left the wormhole, then.

Garak looked around.

Worf sat beside him in the co-pilot's seat, reading over something on his panel.

Far in the distance, a tiny point of blue shone, barely visible so close to the distant brilliance of B'hava'el.

It was quite visible on the viewscreen beside the doctor. On the viewscreen, it was a brilliant sphere of blues, browns, greens, and the wispy white of clouds.

 _Terok Nor_ was a dark shadow over it.

Garak blinked.

That was _not_ right.

The station had not orbited Bajor in years. It was _far_ away from Bajor. 1.7 light years away.

So why was he seeing it in orbit?

“Doctor?” he called.

“Garak! You're awake!” Bashir exclaimed inanely from somewhere behind him.

Garak turned and looked at him.

Bashir wore an impeccable expression of professional concern, but his appearance was as disheveled as it had been when they first left the internment camp, and his eyes were shadowed and heavy-lidded.

Perhaps the inanity could be excused at the moment.

“How are you feeling?” Bashir asked.

“ _Perfectly_ _fine,”_ Garak replied quickly.

Too quickly, apparently.

Bashir's gaze sharpened. “What's wrong?”

Garak looked away.

“Garak! Answer me.”

“ _I ... am not certain. That is to say … well, apparently the … the medication … did not react well with me._ ”

“That's rather vague, Garak,” Bashir complained.

Garak sighed. “ _I … seem to be … seeing things._ ”

Bashir laughed.

“ _Things that are … not present,_ ” Garak clarified.

“I see.”

“ _It is not amusing, I assure you,_ ” Garak said.

“Garak, if what you're seeing is Deep Space Nine back in orbit around Bajor, then you're right. It's not amusing. But it's exactly what _I'm_ seeing, too, and the sensors confirm it. Deep Space Nine _is_ orbiting Bajor.”

“Ah,” Garak said. His mind was still foggy from the medication, and he could think of absolutely nothing else to say. His eyes drifted closed.

He was back in the crawl space amongst the tangle of wires, one wall at his back and another directly in front of him. The light flickered and went out.

“Garak,” Julian called, drawing his attention back to the present.

“Hmm?” Garak opened his eyes. The walls of the runabout shifted menacingly, but at least they were not pressing in on him quite so much.

“Why don't you go lie down and get some sleep?”

“ _No!”_ he snapped.

The doctor was giving him an odd look, and Garak realized he was speaking in Kardasi. “No,” he said again, this time in Federation Standard.

But the doctor probably hadn't noticed the language; he would have heard the words through his Universal Translator, in Federation Standard.

He was reacting to his tone of voice, then.

“My apologies,” Garak said. He turned to look at the magnified image on the doctor's viewscreen.

The station was clearly visible, in orbit around Bajor.

That meant one of three things. Most likely, he was imagining both the image and Doctor Bashir's words. Alternatively, the station could have been moved back to Bajor, which was hardly likely.

The final alternative would have seemed equally unlikely, had they not so recently encountered a wave of chronitons, and traveled through the wormhole, known to be inhabited by beings that existed outside of time.

“Doctor, when are we?” Garak asked.

Bashir stared at him. His forehead wrinkled in concern, and he reached for the medical tricorder on the control panel beside him.

Garak blinked. _Did I say it wrong?_ he wondered. That was certainly possible. His mind felt clearer than when he'd first awakened, but it was most definitely still hazy.

He asked again, in Kardasi this time. The Federaji echo of his translator repeated the question exactly as he had originally said it. _Not wrong, then. Atypically worded, perhaps. Or simply … unexpected._

Bashir hesitated for a moment, and then put down the scanner. “You're thinking it's not the station that's moved in space,” he said, evidently realizing that Garak's question was not indicative of neurological damage or an adverse reaction to one of the medications. “You're thinking _we_ have moved. In time.”

Garak inclined his head.

“Computer. Date.” Worf spoke up.

“The date is Stardate 50567.3,” the computer replied.

“That can't be right,” Bashir muttered. “Computer, confirm date,” he said, turning to his panel. “Confirmed,” he said a moment later, reading from the panel.

“Computer, magnify image,” Garak said.

The image of the station and Bajor enlarged further. Behind the station, dozens of ships were visible, moving to and from Bajor, in the direction not of the station but of Cardassia: mining freighters, cargo ships, a military freighter, and smaller vessels that barely showed up on the viewscreen, probably shuttles.

Cardassia was beginning its withdrawal from Bajor.

The station was not Deep Space Nine.

It was _Terok Nor_.

And he was traveling on a ship carrying one Human, two Klingons, and a Romulan. And one Cardassian exile.

A ship almost close enough to be detected by an observant person running an active scan.

_This is not good._

“Garak? What is it?” Bashir asked.

“The stardate is actually approximately 46388, Doctor,” Garak replied. “Apparently the runabout's computer was not programmed to account for temporal displacement.”

Bashir turned to his panel and pressed several controls. “You're right!” he exclaimed. For some inexplicable reason, he was smiling brightly when he looked up from his panel. “Garak! That station – it's not Deep Space Nine! It's _Terok Nor_!” he exclaimed.

“So it is,” Garak replied, with considerably less enthusiasm.

He did not know why the doctor seemed so excited by the idea.

 _He_ remembered _Terok Nor_ shortly before the Cardassian withdrawal. He had been on the station during the Cardassian withdrawal. It was an experience he had no desire to repeat.

Yet that seemed to be exactly what was about to happen.

Cardassia had obviously begun its withdrawal from Bajor.

Soon, it would withdraw from _Terok_ _Nor._

And once again, he would not be going with them.

He sat, silently, watching.

It would be warm back on Cardassia.

Not at all like the runabout. Its environmental systems had been running on emergency power long enough for much of the heat to dissipate. The bridge was freezing. He noticed then that his own body temperature had dropped so much he had started to shiver again.

Bashir noticed, too. He stepped off of the bridge for a moment and returned from the equipment storage compartment with another blanket, which he draped over the other blanket as if it were a second cloak.

Garak knew he must look ridiculous, but he inclined his head in gratitude. He did not trust his voice to speak.

He pulled the blankets tight. It didn't help much, but it was … comforting.

Bashir looked at him closely.

“Garak? Are you all right?”

“I'm _cold,_ Doctor,” Garak deflected.

“I'm sorry, Garak,” Bashir said softly.

Garak swallowed. He didn't think Bashir was talking about the temperature. _“For_ _what?”_ he asked, trying for a bright, cheerful tone and failing miserably. Belatedly, he realized he'd even spoken in the wrong language again.

Bashir raised his eyebrows and nodded toward the viewport. “For what happened. Er, _is_ happening. Your exile.”

“I was exiled long before this,” Garak said, making sure to speak in Standard this time, trying to sound normal despite the constriction in his throat.

“I know. But this is hard for you, seeing it happen again.”

“Ah. So kind of you to inform me of how I am feeling. Otherwise I surely would never have noticed.”

Bashir's face fell. “I'm sorry,” he said. He returned to the engineering station and turned his attention to the control panel.

Garak watched him for a moment. The doctor had not deserved his vitriol. He was hardly responsible for their current situation. “No. _I_ apologize,” he said quietly.

Bashir looked surprised, but he smiled slightly. “It's all right,” he said.

Garak turned back to the viewscreen. He did not want to watch, but could not bring himself to refrain.

At the moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to return home, and nothing less likely to happen.

Well. Since he could not return home, the least he could do was make himself useful.

He wiped his eyes, took the co-pilot's seat, and pulled up the preliminary results of Worf's diagnostic of the ship's power system.


	10. Chapter 10

Shuraiel awakened with the distinctive vague sense of disorientation that indicated the last vestiges of a healing trance. Keeping her eyes closed, she oriented herself as much as possible. She was seated in a soft but firm seat, leaning against a padded backrest. She was in an enclosed structure of some sort, with an active ventilation system and the unmistakable odors of metal and plastic, along with a distinctive lack of any odors indicating the presence of photosynthesizing plants or algae.

Most likely, she was still on the small Federation ship called variously “the runabout” and “the _USS Rubicon”_.

She listened. She was alone in the room, but others were near. She recognized the Federation Standard accent of the Starfleet Doctor, Bashir, and another voice also speaking Standard, in a much quieter, less enthusiastic voice, and with the distinctive sibilance and intonation of a Kardasi accent. The younger Cardassian from Barracks 6, then. Elim Garak.

There was no sound of warp engines. There was no sensation of rapid movement. Nor was there the slight vibration indicative of sub-light travel.

Only the soft hiss of the ventilation system indicated that the ship was not entirely without power.

It would appear, then, that she was the sole Rihannsu on a disabled Federation runabout, somewhere between Dominion territory in the Gamma Quadrant, the distortion of time and space known variously as the Wormhole and the Celestial Temple, and, perhaps, Federation or Bajoran territory in the Alpha Quadrant.

Shuraiel opened her eyes. The light was much dimmer than she had expected; doubtless the bright Federation lighting was inactive when the ship's power was sub-optimal. Yet she was certainly on the Federation runabout, in what appeared to be its dining facility, judging by the faint residual aroma of a variety of foods and beverages. The room contained, in addition to the chairs in which she was currently seated, a table, three additional chairs, a device that seemed to be a Starfleet replicator, a reclaimer, and a sonic cleansing device.

Slowly, she sat upright, and then rose to her feet. The headache and disorientation she had noted when first awakening after the temporal distortion event were gone.

She was fit for duty.

She rose and walked to the doorway. The adjoining space was empty; no guards.

Interesting.

The room was apparently intended for relaxation. It contained several seating areas, as well as two pairs of recessed beds on one side, and, through a doorway, a small hygiene chamber on the other.

Computers and scientific and medical apparatus of various sorts, along with two empty bio-beds, occupied the next section.

Sealed doors prevented any analysis of the rooms in front of those filled with the medical and scientific equipment, but one could reasonably assume that at least one comprised sleeping quarters for the crew.

Computer terminals, storage compartments, a replicator, and a hygiene chamber comprised the next section, also unoccupied.

Shuraiel approached the control room and, encountering neither barrier nor guards, looked inside.

Within was a control room unlike any she had seen before. The arrangement of seats, panels, and equipment was not unusual, but the control room itself was occupied by two Klingons, a Cardassian, and a Human, none of whom seemed at all concerned by the presence of any of the others.

The Starfleet Klingon, Commander Worf, sat at one of the control stations, diligently performing some sort of scan, while the other Klingon, General Martok, stood behind, listening to the Human doctor, Bashir, his gaze shifting between Bashir and the viewport, through which only darkness and still, distant stars were visible, confirming the lack of movement suggested by the lack of vibration and the relative silence of the ship.

The Human wasn't even pretending to be occupied with any sort of work. He wasn't even standing at a work station. Instead, he stood beside and slightly behind Garak, gesticulating enthusiastically while telling him what seemed to be some kind of story pertaining to a temporal displacement.

Garak sat at the control station beside Worf, shivering despite the two blankets in which he was wrapped. He was watching Bashir with a slight smile, apparently listening eagerly to the doctor's story, though his stiff posture, slightly narrowed eyes, and somewhat intermittent eye contact suggested that he, too, had awakened with a headache. Obviously, healing trance was not an option for him, being neither Rihannsu nor Vulcan; instead, he seemed to be attempting to cope merely by pretending he wasn't in pain.

The doctor stopped talking for a moment and looked up through the viewport at the unmoving stars and what seemed to be a planet ahead.

Garak closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. His eyes shot open, and he turned quickly, meeting Shuraiel's eyes for a fleeting moment before his sharp focus wavered. He blinked, took another breath, and looked at her again. This time, he maintained his focus, and greeted her with a courteous incline of his head.

Shuraiel masked her surprise and returned the gesture, but not, she suspected, before Garak noticed her reaction.

The Cardassian was not unobservant.

The two Klingons were looking her way as well, having turned to see what had caught Garak's attention. Shuraiel inclined her head politely toward them, as well.

Unexpectedly, both Klingons returned the gesture before returning to their prior occupations.

The doctor, looking out the front viewport, didn't notice. By the time he returned his attention to Garak, the Cardassian had occupied himself with something on his panel.

Bashir went back to his story, and Garak went back to watching the doctor.

No one seemed particularly concerned, at the moment, with the incontrovertible fact that the runabout was, essentially, dead in space.

There was no benefit she could see to further denial of her curiosity. <Why are we stopped?> she asked.

Bashir turned and gave her a smile no doubt intended to be polite and welcoming.

She returned the courtesy with an inclination of her head.

“Actually, we're not entirely stopped,” the Human said. “We're drifting at about 350 kilometers per hour. However, the engines are off-line. They were damaged in the Jem'Hadar attack. We had enough momentum to make it through the wormhole, and fortunately the thrusters remained operative. The computer is running diagnostics on the engines and power systems now.”

<Understood.> Not merely what the Human had said – but his attitude toward her and the others on board. She had heard that Starfleet personnel were sometimes extraordinarily trusting. This doctor clearly matched that description. Which was understandable, if he truly worked with at least one Klingon. She hadn't determined yet what relationship he had with the Cardassian. According to Tain, Elim Garak was a tailor, though that obviously wasn't the entire truth, if it in fact were true at all. It was clear, whether or not the doctor and tailor were colleagues in some way she had yet to understand, that they shared a friendship of some sort. Affection, concern, and trust were apparent in their relationship.

Odd. Trust almost certainly did not come easily to the Cardassian, if he were, as she suspected, in some way affiliated with the Obsidian Order. It was he whom Director Tain had contacted for help.

Tain would not have contacted a mere tailor for help.

Garak must be Obsidian Order or former Obsidian Order, or, alternatively, someone who had worked with them, and Tain, in the past.

Shuraiel turned to look more closely at the viewscreen behind the doctor. The structure visible in front of the planet looked familiar. It looked precisely like the Bajoran-Federation station that was supposed to be located near the mouth of the time-space distortion. “Deep Space Nine”, that was the Federation name.

<That is “Deep Space Nine”. Why is it orbiting a planet?> she asked.

<It's orbiting Bajor,> Garak offered helpfully in fluent, unaccented Rihan, feigning a smile and a cheerful tone of voice.

Shuraiel looked at the Cardassian more closely. He clearly was not happy with something about their present circumstances. Perhaps it was nothing more than a combination of physical discomfort, exhaustion, and the psychological discomfort he was probably experiencing from being enclosed within the small ship.

However, it could be something else. Something pertaining to their presence around that particular station at this particular time.

She would remain alert, aware of both the Cardassian and his actions, and the circumstances in which they currently found themselves.

At the moment, however, the Cardassian was simply sitting and looking out the viewport, and the ship was, essentially, drifting.

Shuraiel returned her attention to the Human doctor, who was excitedly saying something to Martok.

“The station isn't Deep Space Nine at all! It's _Terok Nor_!”

“ _Terok Nor,”_ Shuraiel repeated.

“Exactly! The _Cardassian_ name for the station! It's orbiting Bajor now because that's where it was originally built. It hasn't been moved to the wormhole yet!”

<What are you saying?> A partial explanation was obvious, if improbable. Time travel, no doubt induced by the chroniton wave they'd impacted in the spatial-temporal distortion. That did not explain why Bashir seemed so … excited.

“I'm saying, we've gone back in time! To the time of the Cardassian withdrawal from Bajor and from the station!”

“Assuming that is correct,” Worf said, looking up from his panel, “what do we do now?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Dr. Bashir replied unexpectedly. “We wait until the computer completes its diagnostics, and then we make whatever repairs are necessary.”

<What about the Cardassians?> Shuraiel asked, keeping her tone neutral.

Garak turned, slowly and deliberately this time, but his gaze was sharp. “We are approximately 0.875 light years away, operating on emergency power, with no exterior lights illuminated,” he said, speaking in Federation Standard this time. “We are currently out of range of the station's sensors. Unless a ship happens to come this way, they will not detect us.”

“They will detect us easily when we drift within their sensor range,” Worf pointed out.

The Cardassian raised his head. “True,” he acknowledged.

“How long do we have until then?” Bashir asked.

“At our present speed? Within approximately two days, we will be within range.”

“How long do we have until someone takes that initiative?”

“Doctor, you can hardly expect me to know that,” Garak protested.

“Yes, we all know you're just a plain, simple tailor, Garak, but you do know things. You can't deny that.”

Garak raised his eye-ridges. “Of course I can, Doctor! Denial is one of many forms of obfuscation, which happens to be one of my hobbies.”

Bashir raised his eyebrows. “I never would have guessed,” he said sarcastically. “Come on, Garak. We need to know,” he insisted.

“My apologies, Doctor, but I truly do not know.”

<How long do we have until we run out of power for the life support systems?> Shuraiel asked.

The control room went silent and grim at that.

Bashir input the data and checked the results. “At the current rate of use, almost four days.”


	11. Chapter 11

Four days. And then they would be dead in space. Trapped inside this tiny box of a ship, light years from the nearest planet. And if they used any of the power …

“Less, if we use any of the power for propulsion.” Garak's voice was not as steady as he would have preferred, but perhaps it would not be noticed.

Doctor Bashir noticed. He turned to look at Garak with his politely concerned “doctor” expression.

“Is there any way we can return to our own time?” Worf asked.

“Perhaps, but if we do, there may be dozens of Jem'Hadar fighters awaiting us,” Garak pointed out. “It would perhaps be sensible to address that problem a bit later, _after_ we repair the engines.”

<<How can we obtain what we need to repair the warp drive?>> General Martok asked.

“Even with impulse engines operational, where can we obtain resources?” Shuraiel asked.

“Deep Space Nine.” It was Garak who spoke, but they all looked toward the viewport. The station was barely visible from so far away, but its presence loomed menacingly in Garak's memories.

“Don't you mean _Terok Nor_?” Doctor Bashir asked.

“Not at all. If, as you say, today's date is shortly before the Cardassian withdrawal, would it not be more sensible to avail ourselves of that time to effect the necessary repairs, and then go to the station? Doctor, the Federation would be delighted to assist you, a Starfleet doctor lost in time. And if this era is within the same dimension, merely an earlier time, that time will arrive in approximately three days.”

Bashir looked distinctly disappointed.

Worf scowled. “I disagree,” he said. “The Enterprise and Captain Picard will be here at that time. So will the other … me.”

“Garak, _you're_ on the station now!” Bashir exclaimed.

“Believe me, Doctor, I am aware of that.”

“Yes, of course, but what I'm saying is, if they stop us, what if they recognize you? They'll know there are two of you!”

“One is quite enough,” Worf said.

Martok chuckled.

Garak ignored them both. “It would be … best if they did not recognize me.”

“I can change your appearance,” Bashir offered.

“That will _not_ be necessary!” Garak replied, too quickly. The idea of surgery was not a pleasant one – especially a surgery that was entirely unnecessary. He had spent weeks in recovery following the surgery to implant the device in his head, and almost as long following the deactivation of the device – hardly experiences he wished to repeat.

Especially while trapped on an inoperative ship.

Bashir looked at him, questioningly.

 _This is_ not _an inoperative ship,_ Garak silently insisted. He forced his expression to remain neutral. It would not do for the good Doctor or the others to notice how close the incipient panic lay. They had seen quite enough of that side of him in the prison camp. “I am approximately five years older than I was at the time of the Withdrawal, Doctor. My appearance should be sufficiently different.”

“Not so much, Garak. Your clothing is more subdued in colour, perhaps, but _you_ look essentially the same.”

“ _Essentially_ the same, perhaps. But different enough I could pass as … an older cousin, perhaps. To one who does not know me well and who is not paying close attention.”

“Garak. According to the station's records, you served as the sole tailor on _Terok Nor_. There must be people on that station who would recognize you. They won't think you're just a relative,” Worf said.

“Perhaps,” Garak admitted.

“However, there certainly will be more people on the station within the next few days who would recognize myself and Doctor Bashir as well as you.”

Garak inclined his head.

“We must complete repairs within the next two days, and we must reach _Terok Nor_ before it is transferred to Federation and Bajoran control,” Worf announced.

Garak sighed. _He_ had no desire to again experience the aftermath of the Cardassian withdrawal. He certainly did not wish to observe the actual withdrawal, which had been effected in the dead of night without his knowledge.

He had wasted no time obtaining access to the computers after that catastrophic lack of intelligence. He availed himself of the information available to him, in Kardasi, Dakhuri Bajoran, and Federaji, several times per day. Prior to the fiasco at the internment camp, Garak had not been without adequate information in years. It was not an experience he enjoyed or wished to repeat again.

Nor did he wish to be observed – as himself or as his younger self – by his present shipmates during the upcoming Cardassian withdrawal – assuming, of course, that their travel had been temporal, not inter-dimensional.

However, their chances at remaining unidentified, obtaining the necessary supplies, and returning safely would undoubtedly be enhanced by moving quickly and boarding the station before the people arrived who would recognize Doctor Bashir and Worf, as well as himself.

<A more compelling problem is what would happen should the Cardassians detect us,> Major Shuraiel said. <My people are … not allied with the Cardassian Union at the moment. Neither are yours, General, Commander, Lieutenant. Mr. Garak.>

Garak felt her eyes upon him. She was watching him, eyebrows raised, apparently awaiting some sort of response to a question she had not asked.

Ah. Yes. She was wondering about his … political status.

Garak inclined his head politely. <I am Cardassian, obviously. However, I am not, at the present time, officially part of or allied with the Cardassian Union.> Garak tried to keep his voice light and unconcerned, with little success. He forced himself to continue. <I am an exile. The current commander of _Terok Nor_ – also the so-called “leader” of the Cardassian government at the time we have so recently vacated – would be delighted to cause my death.>

“They would, perhaps, be equally delighted to cause my death, or that of the Major,” Worf said, with a courteous nod to Major Shuraiel.

Bashir nodded. “Yes, but they wouldn't want to risk killing me. I'm Human, and Federation, and Starfleet. They've got to be already engaged in negotiations regarding the station and what's to come of it. There's no reason I cannot simply portray myself. They won't know who I am. A Starfleet doctor, a Human, traveling through the galaxy with my companions until we were attacked, without provocation, by Jem'Hadar –”

The anachronism caught Garak's attention. “Not Jem'Hadar, Doctor. Cardassia has not yet encountered them. Nor has the Federation.”

<<Nor the Klingon Empire,>> Martok spoke up. <<Keep it simple, Doctor.>>

“Of course.”

Garak, relieved to have something _useful_ to think of, considered the problem carefully. “Our ship was attacked by an unidentified ship en route to Bajor, where you, a Starfleet doctor, were sent to investigate the medical needs of the planet,” he suggested.

“An unidentified ship?” Bashir asked skeptically.

“That would be difficult to refute,” Worf spoke up.

“All right. An unidentified ship it is. So I'm Dr. Bashir, Starfleet doctor and representative of Starfleet Medical, here to investigate the medical needs of our new ally, traveling with my crew in a runabout that was damaged by an attack by an unidentified ship.”

“Very good, Doctor!” Garak said with a bright smile.

Bashir smiled. “And who are you, Mr. Garak?”

Garak thought about it. Commander Worf was correct. He did not look sufficiently different from his younger self that Gul Dukat, Odo, and perhaps others on the station would not recognize him. He would have to be from the same family, then. “I am … Sovan Garak,” he offered. “I am in your employ, as your aide and the one who maintains your ship. Excuse me a moment.” He reached up and withdraw his universal translator from its hidden pocket. “As a servant, I would not be in possession of such an … _expensive_ … item. I would speak a passable Federation Standard – and, unless a person speaks Standard, they will hear my words through the translator's voice, _not_ my own.”

“Brilliant!” Bashir exclaimed.

Garak allowed a quick smile in return. Julian had been imprisoned for more than a month, some of that time in solitary confinement, yet just the idea of intrigue and adventure was enough for the young doctor to regain his enthusiasm, at least for the moment. The doctor's resilience was … commendable.

“Your voice has not changed, Garak,” Worf said suspiciously.

“I have been speaking Standard, Commander. The translator is only for unfamiliar languages, and for unfamiliar words. It has not been active.”

“General Martok has been speaking _tlhIngan Hol,_ and the Major has been speaking _Rihan.”_

“Both are languages I understand.” Garak turned to Shuraiel. <Do you happen to speak Vulcan, Major Shuraiel?>

Shuraiel raised an eyebrow. <I am not uneducated, Mr. Garak. However, linguistics is not my area of expertise. I understand the language, and I can speak it to some extent.>

Garak inclined his head. <You are, of course, a proud _Rihannsu._ Yet it could be … beneficial … to portray a Vulcan. There would be fewer questions were two Federation officers to travel together, along with the rest of this … unusual “crew” … than for a _Rihannsu_ to serve this crew.>

<I understand, and I agree.>

“What about when we get to the station?” Bashir asked. “Maybe some of us should remain on the runabout.”

“That would not be advisable,” Garak said. “You can be certain Constable Odo _will_ scan this ship, Doctor. And he will detect any life signs on board. He will want to know why someone remained on board the ship, and he will find out. That would draw more attention than any of us would draw on the station.”

“All right. We'll need to leave the ship, then. Where should we go?”

“We will be provided … accommodation,” Garak said grimly.

<You are implying we will be held captive?> Shuraiel asked. Her face was impassive, but her tone conveyed a hint of displeasure at the idea.

<That is a distinct possibility,> Garak replied.

“But only a possibility,” Bashir said. “Dukat was not adverse to speaking in a civil way with Captain … that is, _Commander_ Sisko. He may consider it expedient to establish a similar relationship with other Federation personnel.”

“That is also a possibility,” Garak admitted.

<It would be logical to effect what repairs we can,> Shuraiel spoke up, changing the subject. “It would be best to not allow the ship to become entirely inoperative.”

“Agreed,” Bashir said without hesitation. “But it would be best to wait until the computer finishes its diagnostic. None of us here is an engineer, except perhaps Garak.”

“I am a tailor. _Not_ an engineer.”

Bashir looked at him skeptically. “All right,” he said. “Regardless, none of us can repair the engines without the computer guiding us through the process, and the computer cannot do that prior to completing its diagnostic.”

<<In that case, I propose we sleep. It has been a long few days,>> Martok suggested cheerfully.

“Of course! I apologize, General. Please, feel free to use any of the beds in the recreation area. You as well, Major,” Bashir said politely.

“I appreciate your generosity,” Shuraiel said in Standard.

“You're quite welcome.”

“If I may,” Garak spoke up. “There is the matter of clothing. It would be … appropriate … to change into clothing consistent with our respective roles now, lest we be approached sooner than expected.”

“I agree,” Worf said.

After a brief discussion, it was agreed that Bashir would remain in his Starfleet uniform, Shuraiel would change into Vulcan robes, and Garak and the two Klingons would change into simple trousers and tunics in solid dark colors – the typical garments of service-class Cardassian workers. The latter would be noticed as a Cardassian, of course, but, with luck, as Bashir sometimes said, no one would notice anything amiss about that. After all, Garak had remained behind before; they would have no reason to know that no other Cardassian was supposed to be there.

Worf nodded at Bashir. “You have the bridge, Doctor.”

“Understood.”

Worf stood and made his way toward the back of the runabout, followed by Martok and Shuraiel.

Garak followed them. He entered his quarters and changed as quickly as possible, but other than becoming even more chilled than he already was, nothing untoward happened. The walls did not encroach, and he did not lose his place despite the small size of the quarters.

Nonetheless, he did not linger. He hurried back to the bridge and looked over his panel. “The initial scan will be complete in nineteen point five minutes, Doctor. You have time to get yourself something to eat, if you're hungry.”

“What about you?”

“You eat much faster than I,” Garak said. Particularly when, as now, he was much too cold, and his head ached too badly, for food to hold any appeal. He would not object to a glass of _kanar,_ but this was hardly the time for that. “I shall monitor the computer,” he offered.

“Thank you. Could I bring you something?”

“Perhaps later.”

“All right. You have the bridge, Garak.” Bashir rose and followed after the others.

Garak inclined his head. After Bashir left, he turned to his panel and checked the status of each diagnostic; neither would be finished for some time, and the computer would signal audibly when it finished.

He leaned back in his seat, pulled the blankets more tightly about himself, closed his eyes, and waited, trying to ignore the nearness he could feel of the unreliable walls.

* * *

The computer signaled its completion of the initial scan of the ship's power system.

Garak turned his attention to the readout. As expected, the power system had incurred substantial damage, with multiple sections inoperative.

As soon as the others returned from their respective meals and rest periods, one of them could take the bridge, and he could get to work. Repair-work would serve admirably as a distraction from the rather unpleasant idea of being trapped on the tiny vessel once it ran out of power. In the meantime, he would familiarize himself with this particular ship's systems.

Garak moved to the engineering station and pulled up the schematics.

* * *

Garak pulled open the first panel and looked inside. The wires, couplings, and switches were not configured the same way as those portrayed in the schematics. They had been modified.

Rather like those within the crawl space. He could almost see the flickering jury-rigged light of the crawl space, feel its heat scorching his face, sense the malevolence of the wires, waiting to shock him with every careless move, feel the walls pressing in on him.

Garak blinked. The conduits and wires reverted to those of the runabout: color-coded, well-insulated cables, couplings, and switches, efficiently lit by the auxiliary lighting system.

The problem was obvious: a circuit had overloaded, melting insulation and conduit alike, and re-solidifying into a lumpen mass of plastic and other materials. It was _definitely_ the runabout's circuitry – even though it didn't quite match that shown in the schematics. It was _entirely_ different from the modified wiring of the internment camp transmitter.

Yet he could still feel the walls closing in, his heart pounding, his stomach clenched in an uncomfortable knot.

 _You're not trapped in a crawl space now, Garak. There's plenty of air here. The walls_ – he checked to be sure – _are not closing in_.

“Garak?”

Garak flinched. He hadn't heard Bashir approach. _“Ah, Doctor. These … circuits have been modified from those depicted in the schematics,”_ he announced brightly, trying to pretend nothing at all was wrong. He gestured toward the fused wire. _“Some, as you can see, have been damaged by a power surge.”_

Doctor Bashir looked at him with a peculiar expression he couldn't identify.

“ _They will need to be replaced,”_ Garak insisted.

“What? Oh. Yes, I suppose they will. There should be some replacement parts in the storage compartment in the cockpit.” Bashir's eyes narrowed. “Garak, what's wrong?”

Garak blinked. “Nothing at all," he said carefully, in Standard.

Bashir looked at him skeptically, and waited.

Garak sighed. “It's just … I've been doing a lot of time with … wiring lately,” he said.

Bashir snorted. “It's _spending_ time, Garak. Not _doing_ time. Doing time means … er … well, actually, never mind. I suppose _doing time_ works, too, in this case.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“ _Doing_ time means serving a sentence. In prison. _Spending_ time means, well, using time to do something.”

“Ah. I should perhaps rephrase. While doing time, I recently spent a significant quantity of … most unpleasant time reconfiguring the circuitry.”

“And it's … bothering you now? Like the crawl space in the prison camp?”

“That's not entirely correct, Doctor. It … bears a resemblance to that situation, yes. More than I had expected. It … surprised me.”

“I see. So you don't know yet if this will be a problem for you?”

Garak put on the determined mask of the Obsidian Order operative he had once been. “With the proper parts, I can replace the damaged components.”

“There should be replacement parts in the equipment bay, but it may not have everything. We may need to replicate some things.”

“I understand.”

“Come on. I'll show where they are.”

“I do thank you, my dear Doctor.”

Garak followed Bashir to the front of the ship and indulged in the luxury of a long look out the viewport at the tiny sphere that was Bajor, and its sun behind it.

The chances of him being allowed a shore leave on Bajor, of all places, was infinitesimal. There was no benefit to dwelling on such a ridiculously sentimental idea. He should get to work.

Garak looked through the compartments until he found the one in which electronics components were stored. He took out the proper size of insulated wire, along with various connectors, fuses, switches, and other potentially useful parts, and returned with them to the work-space.

It did not take long to remove the first segment of fused wire and insulation and replace it with the proper parts, but this was only one of perhaps thousands of damaged components. His hands and wrists still ached from the hours of work he'd done to prepare the transmitter to contact the runabout. Dr. Bashir had healed the electrical burns, but his nerves hadn't figured that out yet; they were still sending the occasional stab of phantom pain. He did not feel like doing another interminable engineering session, especially in a somewhat cramped space. This one, he knew intellectually, was significantly bigger than the last, but that was not keeping the walls from threatening to crush him.

“Garak?”

“Hmm?”

“Is all the damage like that? Fused electrical wire?”

“I hardly know, Doctor. I've not inspected all the damage yet,” Garak snapped.

Bashir raised his eyebrows, but Garak thought he looked more hurt than surprised.

Garak sighed. “My apologies.” He replaced the panel and started to open the next one. A stab of pain lanced his right wrist, and he hissed in pain.

“Garak.”

“Will you leave me ALONE? I have _work_ to do!”

“I can do it.”

Garak froze. “I … I beg your pardon?” he asked when he could speak.

“I can inspect the circuitry and replace damaged components. Modifying a system to encode a specific message is well beyond my capability, but this is not. Take a break, Garak.”

“I cannot! I have work to do!”

“Let me see your hand.” The doctor had pulled out a medical tricorder from somewhere.

Garak didn't protest, and Bashir took his hand and scanned it, pausing when he reached the wrist.

“I don't believe there's any permanent damage, but your FCR tendon is slightly inflamed. If you keep working, it will get worse, and you may start to lose function in your hands.”

“The runabout cannot go anywhere until the power system is repaired. I need to work!”

“I know that! But the repairs will take some time. It will be a marathon, not a sprint. So at least let me replace the fused wires. You need to rest so you'll be able to do the work I can't, after the simple repairs are done. I can give you an anti-inflammatory that will help a bit, but that won't be enough.” Bashir reached into his bag and took out a hypospray. “And it's not only your wrist. Did you sleep at all at the camp?” he asked, adjusting the settings.

Garak laughed bitterly. “At the camp? I was … rather busy with … other matters.”

Bashir nodded. He didn't look at all surprised. Before Garak could protest, he pulled back Garak's sleeve and activated the hypospray. “Other arm,” he demanded, checking the hypospray.

Garak complied, and Bashir injected the remaining contents.

The pain faded almost immediately.

“Now, go lie down and get some sleep. Doctor's orders.”

The image of the enclosed beds on the runabout flashed through Garak's mind. The quarters on the runabout were not much bigger than the corridor where he'd been working, but lying down on one of those beds with no work as a distraction would be _completely_ intolerable. _“I will not!”_ he snapped, trying to portray anger, but his voice trembled almost as badly as his hand.

“Do you need something to help you sleep?” Bashir asked. His voice was somehow both dispassionate and gentle.

Before he could stop himself, Garak nodded.

Bashir reached into his bag again and removed a small container. He shook out two tablets and gave them to Garak.

“Go get some water and take these. Or tea. Yes, tea would be better. The warmth would do you good.”

Garak glared at him.

Bashir returned his look steadily. “Garak. I am aware you're cold. It's a bit too cold now for me, too. You can't raise the temperature in your quarters right now. There's not enough power for that at the moment, even if the circuits are intact, which they may or may not be. But there's certainly enough that you can replicate yourself a single cup of hot tea.”

“Assuming _those_ circuits are intact.”

Bashir nodded. “True. But I believe the ones in the lounge are, even if the others aren't.

Garak returned the gesture as if the Human had intended it as courtesy rather than the simple acknowledgment it surely was. Without another word, he withdrew to his quarters and locked the door behind him.

He glanced at the so-called “bed” and shuddered. He certainly could not face _that_ at the moment, but he could use the blankets. He took one and wrapped it around himself.

Doctor Bashir was correct, it turned out; the replicator was working. Garak made himself a cup of ersatz red leaf tea. It was not bad, albeit far from good, and the warmth was pleasant.

By the time he finished the tea, he decided sleep might be possible after all. He took the remaining blankets from the bed and looked once more around the room. Finding no suitable alternative, he lay down on the floor and closed his eyes.

* * *

Garak didn't know how much time had passed, but he felt somewhat better when he awoke. His head and his hands ached less, his mind was slightly clearer, and the walls were, at the moment, cooperatively remaining in place.

Certainly now he could make some progress with the repairs.

Doctor Bashir had apparently been correct about his own engineering ability and willingness to do the work. He had advanced past nearly two-thirds of the panels on the port side of the runabout.

Garak paused to watch him carefully and competently replace a switch in which several wires had fused together.

He approached the doctor quietly, not wanting to initiate any uncomfortable conversation, but he needed tools.

Bashir looked up at his approach and inclined his head in a perfect Cardassian-style greeting.

Garak smiled and returned the gesture. He took up the tools he needed, moved to the starboard side, and got to work.

His hands were steady, the pain gone except for a slight ache. The walls remained in place. Garak replaced the first damaged segment of wire, and the panel it was behind, and moved on to the next.


	12. Chapter 12

Julian replaced the fused mess with an intact switch and new wires and, at last, replaced the panel itself.

 _Finally!_ He'd been working for more than three hours and seventeen minutes, and he was exhausted. He'd barely had time to sleep at all since coming out of the isolation chamber, and _that_ had not been conducive to restful sleep at all. The few hours of sleep he'd managed on the runabout before it neared the Idran system had helped, but it hadn't been enough.

He suspected Garak hadn't managed even that much. He'd returned to his work after a mere two and a half hours, but he hadn't really seemed any more rested than before.

Julian wasn't sure how much, or even if, Garak had slept in the internment camp. It seemed unlikely he'd slept much, what with the hours he'd of necessity spent in the crawl space in conjunction with everything else that had been going on. Every time Julian had looked at him, he'd either been staring at the wall or restlessly watching everyone else. He hadn't seemed able to relax enough to sleep.

Garak didn't seem much calmer on the runabout, except when he was focused on some sort of task, and he was adamant about being allowed to work.

Julian wondered if just being on the runabout, spacious though it was in comparison to the crawl space, was enough to trigger his claustrophobia. He hadn't noticed before, but he suspected it was. That might explain why Garak always seemed so irritable during away trips. In retrospect, Julian realized it was, consistently, after he'd been cooped up for a few hours.

If a spacious runabout could be so problematic, how did he manage, on the station? The turbolifts in particular were a lot smaller than the runabout's cockpit, and Julian hadn't noticed them bother him. Which was fortunate, since he'd have to ride them every day, just to get from his quarters to his shop and back. Unless he took the access corridors instead, which was certainly possible. Garak would be able to override the security lockouts keeping civilians such as himself out. But the access corridors were little more than Jefferies tubes. They'd be even less suitable for someone with claustrophobia than the turbolifts, simply due to the faster speed, and thus shorter duration of the journey, of the turbolift.

Probably it was the amount of time he'd spent in the crawl space, as much as the cramped conditions within, that were getting to him. He had been in there for _hours_ , day after day – and despite everything, he still managed to reprogram the transmitter.

Garak saved them all.

Well, it wouldn't hurt to take a short break, to check on Garak … on his progress.

Garak was working diligently on the circuitry, carefully removing a melted switch and replacing it with a new component, but he did not look well. His usually steady hands were trembling, his scales were pale, his eyes dull with exhaustion.

 _When was the last time he had anything to eat?_ Julian wondered. They'd all had little enough in the internment camp, but he realized he'd not actually seen Garak eat anything there.

He probably would refuse to eat now. He would give his work as an excuse, but most likely he was simply too cold. The temperature had already dropped enough to be slightly uncomfortable for him, and he was much more tolerant of cold than Garak.

Well, it wouldn't hurt to offer him at least something to drink. He might accept that, especially if it were warm.

Julian went to see what the replicator could come up with.


	13. Chapter 13

Garak pulled away the next panel. This section wasn't too bad; only one connector and the wires attached to it were fused. Carefully, he removed the damaged circuitry. He located an intact fuse and cut two pieces of properly insulated wires to size, but when he attempted the third cut, his hand refused to grip with enough force to make the cut.

Scowling, Garak switched the cutter to his left hand. It was trembling as badly as the right, but it retained enough strength to make the cut.

He connected the wires to the fuse and spliced them to the ingress and egress wires.

Finished, he replaced the panel and stretched his arms out from their cramped position.

It didn't help much, but he picked up his tool kit and stood to go to the next panel in need of inspection and possible repair.

The walls began to spin before he could take a second step.

Garak closed his eyes and sank to the floor, turning so he could lean against the panel.

 _Just breathe for a minute, and you can get back to work,_ he assured himself silently. He took a deep breath.

Inexplicably, he thought he detected a slight hint of _rokassa_ fruit in the air.

That was odd.

He tasted the air. The taste/scent was unmistakable. It was perhaps replicated, but it was, nonetheless, _rokassa_.

Interesting.

“Garak?”

“Hmm?” Garak opened his eyes. He still felt quite unsteady, but the walls were once again nearly still.

Bashir sat on the floor beside him, holding out a glass of juice.

Garak stared at Bashir and the juice in unmasked surprise. Julian was bringing him beverages now? At _work_?

He schooled his expression into a customer service mask, but Julian's delighted grin made it only too clear he had seen.

Well, perhaps that wasn't so bad.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Garak said at last. He took the glass, holding it carefully so he wouldn't drop it or spill despite the tremor in his hands.

“Drink it slowly,” Bashir advised.

Garak inclined his head and sipped the juice. It was _warm_ , which was rather odd for _rokassa_ juice, but nonetheless it was quite acceptable. He realized it had been quite some time since he had had anything to drink, or eat, other than a few cups of tea on the runabout.

“I finished the repairs to the port side,” Bashir spoke up after Garak finished his juice.

Garak smiled. “I am gratified to hear that. I have five remaining on the starboard side.”

“All right. I can do those. And what's next?”

Garak raised his eye-ridges. “I am to do what, exactly, while you appropriate my work, Doctor? Sit and watch?”

Bashir shrugged. “If you like. Or you could go get yourself some tea and something hot to eat, and maybe get some sleep.”

“That will _not_ be necessary.” Garak started to rise to dispose of the cup. “I will complete the repairs. Perhaps you could check the status of the engine diagnostics.”

Bashir stopped him. _“I'll_ take care of that,” he said, taking the empty cup. “How's your hand?”

“It will suffice.”

“All right, but you need to take a break and warm up as soon as you're done.”

Garak inclined his head in acknowledgment of the doctor's concern.

As he'd expected, Doctor Bashir interpreted the gesture as assent. He offered a genuine, if tired, smile, and went to dispose of the cup. Garak assumed he intended to check on the engine diagnostics as well.

Garak moved over to the next panel and got back to work. The juice and the rest had done him good. His hands still ached, but they were nearly steady, and his right hand had regained enough strength to handle the wires and the various switches and connectors, if not to use the wire cutters. Of equal importance, the walls remained still, neither spinning around nor shifting closer.

* * *

Garak replaced the final panel. A padd would have been beneficial, to confirm that all of the necessary sections had been repaired, and to assuage his curiosity as to how long he had been working. It had seemed a much shorter period of time than any session he'd worked in the crawl space, yet his hands had never ached so much.

Lacking a padd, he would need to look over the diagnostics and the schematics.

Garak stood, slowly this time, and made his way to the bridge.

Doctor Bashir was already there, working on something at the engineering station. Commander Worf sat at the pilot's station, reviewing some sort of readout. Neither General Martok nor Major Shuraiel were present.

Through the viewport, Bajor was visible again, a tiny sphere orbiting to the side of B'hava'el.

On the viewscreen, the planet seemed much larger, dwarfing _Terok Nor_ and the tiny shadows moving about the station.

“ _Computer. Increase magnification,”_ he ordered.

“Garak. The runabout isn't programmed in Kardasi,” Bashir reminded him.

“Ah. Yes. Thank you, Doctor.” He repeated the command, in Standard this time, and the computer complied.

The shadows were Bajoran ships – a transport and three shuttles.

 _Not_ Cardassian ships. Cardassia had not yet begun its withdrawal from Bajor, or from _Terok Nor_.

If they were discovered, and brought on board, he would once again be on Cardassian … territory. Not, of course, Cardassian land, or Cardassian soil.

 _That_ was where he dreamed of returning. Not this dreadful station, whichever administration it was under at a given moment.


	14. Chapter 14

The computer signaled the completion of its diagnostic, and Worf returned his attention to the panel. As the preliminary diagnostic showed, there were three plasma leaks in the impulse drive system. One of the plasma manifolds would have to be replaced, but the other leaks could be repaired.

“Garak? Why don't you take a seat?” Dr. Bashir said.

Worf glanced behind him. Garak was standing at the back of the bridge, staring out the viewport. He was shivering despite the blankets he was wrapped in. Worf glanced at the readout; the temperature on the bridge was 14.4 degrees. He would ignore the blankets. Garak was not a Starfleet officer. He did not need to be in uniform.

“Garak!”

“Hmm?”

“Sit down!”

Garak walked to the front and took the co-pilot's seat.

“Garak, have you finished the repairs of the power system?” Worf asked.

“ _Pardon?”_

“The wiring. Did you finish the repairs?”

“ _I … am not sure. The repairs to the electronics for the primary system, yes. There may be damage … elsewhere. In the secondary systems.”_

“Understood.” Worf entered the necessary commands and attempted to reactivate main power.

Nothing happened.

Worf pulled up the readout of the diagnostic of the engines. “The impulse drive is off-line. One of the plasma manifolds will need to be replaced. There are two additional leaks within the conduits.”

Garak sighed. _“I … understand. Give me a minute, and I will –”_

“No, Garak. Someone else will make those repairs,” Dr. Bashir said.

Garak turned to glare at the doctor. _“Whom would you suggest,_ Doctor?”

“Anyone who can follow a schematic. Myself, Commander Worf –”

“ _I can follow – ”_

“I know you _can_ , Garak. That's not the issue. I'm sorry, but I'm putting you on medical leave.”

“ _Doctor, I must protest! Repairing the runabout's engines –”_

“Garak, you're freezing! You may work after you warm up; that's fine. But right now, the last thing you need is to work in the engine compartments. It's colder there than it is here!”

“ _If we do not repair the –”_

“I know. It's important. But it's something _I_ can do, Garak. I can follow a schematic, and the computer can tell me everything else I need to know.”

“My dear Doctor –”

“Garak.” Julian cut him off. “You can monitor the diagnostic of the power system.”

Garak slumped back in his seat. “Understood.” He pulled up the appropriate screen. _“Diagnostic will be complete in … 0.245 hours.”_

“Thank you. Now I'm going to get you some hot tea. Worf? Can I get you something?”

 _On the bridge? That is not the place for beverages._ “No, Doctor. Thank you.”

“All right.”

Garak's screen flashed, and the tailor sat up properly. _“The diagnostic of the warp drive is complete,”_ he announced.

“Report!” Worf ordered.

“ _Patience, Commander. Patience.”_ Garak read the readouts. _“Ah. The starboard nacelle was breached. The primary reactant injector and several plasma transfer conduits require replacement. The nacelle itself requires repair.”_

Worf pulled up the ship's inventory on his screen. “We do not have a replacement reactant injector.”

“Can they be replicated?” Bashir asked, returning from the back with a steaming cup in one hand and a blanket draped over his other arm.

“With an industrial replicator, yes. Not with the replicators we have on the runabout.”

“What about the impulse drive?”

“ _The conduits can be repaired,”_ Garak said. _“The …_ manifolds _… are quite beyond my level of expertise. Doctor, this is … warm!”_

“Yes, it is. I realized that, since the replicators can produce beverages of different temperatures, I should simply ask it to produce a “warm” blanket. It responded as if I were requesting an unfamiliar beverage; it asked me to specify the temperature. I specified 40 degrees, and it produced this!”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Garak took the blanket and the tea.

Worf ignored the rest of their inane conversation and typed in several queries. “We have three replacement plasma manifolds available,” he announced. “We will begin by repairing the damage to the impulse drive.”

Footsteps approached the bridge. Worf turned to see General Martok and Major Shuraiel enter.

<Please specify the damage,> Shuraiel said.

“One of the plasma manifolds needs to be replaced, and several of the conduits need to be repaired,” Dr. Bashir announced.

<That is within my capability.>

“I do not know – ” Worf began objecting.

“The Tal Shiar has access to runabout schematics,” Garak said, speaking in Federation Standard.

Shuraiel raised her eyebrows. <Indeed?> she queried.

Garak inclined his head. <Your people worked with Enabran Tain, Major. You would hardly have missed the opportunity to access the Obsidian Order's records.>

Shuraiel returned the gesture. <That is correct.>

“You are saying the Obsidian Order has access to Starfleet records,” Worf said.

“Commander, that doesn't matter now,” Dr. Bashir spoke up. “What matters is repairing the impulse drive! If she can do it, she should.”

“Very well. Doctor, you will accompany the Major.”

“Of course.” Bashir picked up the tool bag he had been using, nodded to Garak, who for once did not decide to start an argument, and made his way, along with the Romulan, to the equipment storage bins.

Worf turned his attention to his panel, and continued monitoring their surroundings, visually and with passive scans. An active scan could be noticed by the Cardassians at their current distance. It would be better to complete as many repairs as possible before drawing any attention to themselves.


	15. Chapter 15

Garak sat at the co-pilot's station, sipping his third cup of hot red-leaf tea. The beverages and the warm blanket had helped. He was still cold, but he was no longer shivering. His hands were steady. And his mind was finally clear.

He had little to do at the moment. Bashir had forbidden him from working on the necessary repairs, and Worf was competently monitoring the sensors.

Garak busied himself trying to come up with a way to return to their own time. A chroniton particle generator seemed to be the best option. It was chroniton particles that sent them to the present time; within the wormhole, it was possible that, even if their calibrations were somewhat inaccurate, the Prophets could correct for the error and send them back to their own time.

Except the Prophets, like the Galipotans, had no concept of time. Technically, of course, the Galipotans _had_ a concept of time, acquired from a significant number of experiences dealing with beings who were culturally dependent on time; they simply refused to _acknowledge_ the concept. Were their sweaters not so popular, he would be delighted to refrain from doing business with them.

 _Focus, Garak. What can we do to generate a chroniton particle wave?_ Or perhaps, locate an existing wave in the wormhole – but that would be impractical. The likelihood of such a wave just happening to hit them with exactly the right energy and in exactly the right way in all other respects to return them to a specific time was _highly_ unlikely.

They would perhaps not need to modulate the chroniton particle wave accurately. Chronitons were highly dangerous to the Prophets; generating some, in a sealed container, could perhaps gain their attention. They were non-linear entities who could, if they so chose, transport a ship through time. They would need only recognize the temporal pattern to which the _Rubicon_ belonged to be able to send it back.

Of course, it was highly likely that they would not choose to assist in such a way. In that case, initiating a chroniton wave, modulated to be the inverse of the original wave, was their best option, albeit one unlikely to send them back to exactly the correct time.


	16. Chapter 16

Julian scanned the plasma manifold and nodded. “You got it!” he exclaimed. “The tricorder shows no weaknesses in the connections.”

Shuraiel inclined her head in a familiar gesture. <Indeed.> She picked up the tools she had used to replace the manifold and to replace the damaged segments of conduit, and led the way back toward the bridge.

Julian sealed the access hatch behind them and followed.

“Commander Worf, please run a diagnostic of the impulse drive. Major Shuraiel replaced the manifold and the damaged conduit; we should be able to re-initialize the impulse engines and main power!”

“Acknowledged,” Worf said, inputting the necessary commands.

Julian nodded to Martok, who was monitoring activity near _Terok Nor_ , and went to check on Garak.

“Romulan technology is capable of generating chroniton particles, Doctor,” Garak announced before Julian could ask how he was feeling.

“Can it?” Julian asked inanely, his focus on examining his patient without being obvious about it.

Garak began explaining the peculiar feature of certain Romulan torpedoes that caused them to emit such particles incidentally.

Julian nodded, both in response to what Garak was saying and in acknowledgment that he was obviously doing much better. He was still cold, but Julian could tell only because the fastidious tailor was still wearing a blanket over his clothing. He no longer seemed lethargic or irritable, and he was no longer inadvertently switching between Kardasi and Federation Standard. He seemed much more himself, except that the topic of which he was speaking so enthusiastically was chroniton particles and their generation, rather than their more typical topic of literature.

“Diagnostic complete,” the computer announced.

“The impulse drive should be operational,” Worf announced. “Re-initializing it now.”

A moment later, the engine whirred back to life.

“Main power operational. Computer, maintain existing lighting. Raise temperature of the bridge to 27 degrees.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Garak said. He sounded, and looked, truly surprised.

Worf nodded silently.


	17. Chapter 17

“We are being hailed,” Garak announced. He glanced up at the viewport, on which a Cardassian fighter was just visible, heading directly toward them.

“Doctor, _you_ should respond,” Worf said. He moved to the science station in the back, allowing Bashir to take the pilot's seat.

Garak moved to the engineering terminal, where he, too, would be off-screen..

“Put it on screen,” Bashir said.

"Acknowledged," Garak replied. He input the command.

The image of the approaching fighter was replaced by the face of a young Cardassian soldier. “ _This is Glinn Zoran of the Cardassian fighter_ Honge IV _. Identify yourselves_ ,” a somewhat distorted voice said through the auxiliary communications speaker.

“I am Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir, a Lieutenant in Starfleet, Medical Division,” Bashir replied, easily surpassing Zoran's haughtiness in his own introduction. “My ship is the _USS Rubicon._ ”

“ _What are you doing in Cardassian space_?” Zoran asked.

“This is not Cardassian space!” Bashir snapped. “This space is Bajoran.”

 _“Bajoran!”_ Zoran said, astonished. “ _This has not been_ Bajoran _space in years_!”

“It is my understanding that Cardassia has agreed to withdraw from this entire sector upon its withdrawal from Bajor and the ore processing station,” Bashir said harshly.

The young glinn's astonishment was replaced almost immediately by an impeccably neutral mask. “ _That information has not been released to the public_.” His voice, too, was completely devoid of emotion.

“Perhaps not to the _Cardassian_ public,” Bashir said scornfully. “Starfleet personnel, on the other hand, are very much aware. Now. What can I do for you?”

“ _You can explain why you are … here_.”

Garak allowed himself to smile at the much more courteous tone the young glinn had affected, along with his neutral wording.

“Starfleet Medical requires information pertaining to the medical needs of Bajor, which I understand to be a potential ally to the Federation. I was en route to carry out an inspection. My ship was attacked by an unidentified ship. It caused severe damage to my power systems.”

“ _Do you require assistance_?” Zoran asked politely.

“Not at the moment, thank you. My crew has repaired the main power grid and impulse drive. However, I'm afraid our starboard nacelle was breached. Our warp drive remains inoperative.”

“ _I see. Keep your shields down, and prepare to be boarded. If all is as you say, I will accompany you to_ Terok Nor.”

“That will not be necessary,” Bashir said haughtily.

“ _I did not say this is negotiable, Doctor_ ,” the glinn said harshly.

“Very well. You have my permission to board. No more than yourself and, if you prefer, one other. I have limited life support at the moment.”

_“Understood.”_

A moment later, the transporter activated, and a glinn, presumably Zoran, beamed aboard, accompanied by a young gil. Both carried disruptors.

“ _You! You're a Cardassian_!” the gil exclaimed. He was staring at Garak, disruptor apparently forgotten in his astonishment.

 _How very observant of you,_ Garak thought. “ _I am_ ,” he said aloud, in Service Class Kardassi, with a polite inclination of his head as if the gil were his superior.

“ _Why are you_ –”

“He works for _me_ ,” Doctor Bashir interrupted. “Now, if you don't mind, I really do not appreciate having that … _device_ … aimed at myself or my crew.”

Zoran held the doctor's gaze for a long moment, and then courteously inclined his head. “ _Very well_ ,” he said. He lowered his disruptor, but did not holster it. _“Meloka!”_ he called.

The young gil finally looked away from Garak.

Zoran nodded toward the back.

Bashir rose, quickly and gracefully, and stepped in front of both soldiers. “Gentlemen, if there's anything else you need to see?” he offered politely.

“ _Thank you_ , Lieutenant,” Zoran replied.

Bashir led the way aft.

Garak turned back to his screen. Engineering schematics were displayed, but he was not paying them the attention he should.

The young gil had been watching him with too much interest.

He hadn't quite recognized him, Garak was certain, but there was little doubt Garak had seemed familiar to him.

Evidently, the young gil had previously encountered his other self.

The inspection was completed quickly. The Cardassians were, as expected, a bit surprised to find two Klingons on board, evidently working, along with himself, for the Federation Human, but they saw nothing unusual about the Romulan. Evidently the Vulcan name she had taken, in conjunction with her distinctively non-military garb, had been sufficient cover. They assumed she, too, was Federation.

The glinn contacted his ship and gave the command to activate the tractor beam.

He and Gil Meloka remained on the runabout while their crew towed the _Rubicon_ to the station.

Evidently they did not trust _Rubicon's_ unusual crew to simply follow them.


	18. Chapter 18

The _Honge IV_ released the _Rubicon_ , and Bashir piloted it into position on the runabout pad. The ship jolted slightly as the mooring strips latched on, and then vibrated as the elevator lowered it inside the maintenance bay.

A few minutes later, the airlock cycled open, and a delightful waft of warm air flowed into the runabout.

Not so delightful was the sight that greeted them.

Several Cardassian soldiers, all armed with disruptors.

And Gul Dukat.

Garak blinked, but he did not allow his consternation to show. He maintained his cover, feigning shy curiosity as he looked up at each of the other Cardassians in turn.

 _“Garak?!”_ Dukat exclaimed.

 _“Yes?”_ Garak asked politely, affecting surprise that one of such an elevated rank would not only speak to him but know his name.

 _“What are_ you _doing here?”_

“He works for me,” Bashir spoke up, shifting his position so he was almost, but not quite, standing between Garak and Dukat.

 _“No_ , Lieutenant, _I am quite certain he does not. He is a tailor on_ Terok Nor _.”_

Garak tilted his head, feigning astonishment. _“I am a_ what _?”_ he asked.

Dukat scowled at him. _“A tailor,”_ he repeated, as if Garak simply had not heard what he'd said.

“Well, Sovan does mend my crew's clothing when necessary, but I'd hardly call him a _tailor,_ ” Bashir spoke up. “He's my assistant.”

 _“I see. He bears a remarkable resemblance to the tailor on board the station, by the name of Garak,”_ Dukat said, not looking away from Garak.

 _“Garak is my surname,”_ Garak offered politely.

 _“Perhaps you are a relative. Have you an_ Elim _Garak in your family?”_

Garak allowed his disgust at Dukat's arrogant tone to show momentarily as he looked away. “ _Not of whom we speak_ ,” he said.

Dukat chuckled. _“I see,”_ he said. Finally losing interest, he turned to Bashir. _“You are a Federation … doctor?”_ he questioned.

“That's right. Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir, a Lieutenant in Starfleet Medical. And you are?”

 _“Gul Dukat, Commander of_ Terok Nor _.”_ He gestured expansively behind him, the effect somewhat tarnished by their current location in a rather small corridor. _“Welcome aboard,”_ Dukat said magnanimously.

“Thank you, Sir,” Doctor Bashir said politely. “I am sorry to impose on your hospitality, but our ship's warp system has been badly damaged, and your associates were kind enough to invite us here for shore leave and to effect repairs. I hope we can arrange suitable terms for the necessary parts to enable us to do so.”

 _“Of course. If you will_ _– ”_

Heavy footsteps pounded down the corridor, and Dukat stopped talking.

Two gils approached, with the air of those who bring a truly important message.

 _“Yes?”_ Dukat demanded, failing entirely to mask his annoyance.

 _“Gul Dukat, you have a communication from Central Command,”_ one of the gils said. He glanced at the newcomers, but commendably did not allow himself to be distracted for more than a moment from his task.

Dukat sighed. _“Very well.”_ He turned to Doctor Bashir. _“If you will excuse me, Doctor. My associates will show you to quarters.”_

“Of course. Thank you,” Bashir replied courteously.

Dukat turned and swaggered down the corridor.

The young glinn, Zoran, gestured politely to the doctor, making sure to include the entire group in his invitation to follow him. He led the way down the corridor leading to the Promenade of _Terok Nor._

* * *

Garak walked slightly behind Dr. Bashir, as befitted a servant accompanying his employer.

Zoran set a fast pace, which was perhaps fortunate. The necessity of dodging the other pedestrians on the Promenade, despite the tendency of most of the Bajoran populace almost instinctively to move aside when a Cardassian approached, required just enough attention to mitigate his desire to slow down and observe and, perhaps, react to his observations in a way that could arouse suspicion.

 _And where are these quarters to which you are so kindly taking us?_ Garak wanted to ask, but he said nothing. Such a question would hardly be appropriate from a servant to a soldier, even one of a low rank.

Of course they would not be assigned to the relatively spacious quarters in the outer ring that at this time housed primarily military officers, such as he had appropriated for himself after the Cardassian withdrawal, but they could be assigned, together or separately, to quarters such as those assigned as private housing to civilians and active Obsidian Order agents, or to a group housing section such as those assigned to non-commissioned military personnel and officers of the lowest ranks.

He wasn't sure which he would have preferred.

He almost would have preferred to make his own way in the Bajoran housing sector.

But they were not approaching that sector.

They were approaching the turbolift.

 _Do not show_ anything, Garak told himself fiercely. _Your “cousin” would not share your weakness. You cannot risk being identified by giving cause for suspicion. These soldiers might not know, but Dukat has access to your records. He knows. And if he doesn't, he could find out with a simple query to the computer._

He saw Julian glance at him with concern, but fortunately the doctor had the sense to keep quiet, though he did shift just a little closer.

Trying not to be obvious about it, Garak closed the distance further until he could feel the doctor's presence at his side.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and stepped inside the gaping maw.

The walls were much too close. His heart was pounding so hard and fast he suspected Julian could probably hear it.

Counting the steps, he reached the back of the turbolift and turned to face the front. Focusing intently on maintaining a calm expression, he opened his eyes. _A distraction would be appropriate_ , he told himself. But he couldn't think of a thing to say, within or outside of his present role.

<<Where are you taking us?>> It was General Martok's voice, calm and confident in a way that seemed natural for him.

The glinn looked at him askance. _“To your quarters,"_ he replied shortly.

Garak raised his eye-ridges, feigning shock at the young officer's deplorable manners toward a guest.

Zoran noticed. His scales darkened slightly, no doubt in shame at having been called out on a lack of manners by a mere servant.

“ _My apologies_ ,” he said. _“I have not been authorized to provide you with information pertaining to the location. But you will find the quarters adequate.”_

<<I am gratified to hear that,>> Martok said politely.

The turbolift came to a stop. Garak wanted nothing more than to race to the front and bolt outside the second the door slid open, but he was not certain the turbolift had yet reached its destination.

The turbolift started moving again, on the horizontal axis this time.

Garak closed his eyes, trying desperately to control his breathing just enough to not be noticed by the glinn who, fortunately, had other things on his mind.

One hundred and thirteen breaths later, the turbolift came to a stop again.

This time, the door slid open, and Zoran stepped outside.

Garak forced himself to wait for Martok, Worf, and Shuraiel to exit before he followed Bashir out.

Zoran led the way toward their new quarters, but for the moment Garak had no interest in where they were to be assigned.

He was out of the turbolift. That, at the moment, was enough.

Silently, he walked almost beside the doctor, skirting the expectations of a servant's place, but careful to remain slightly behind.

He stopped when they stopped, first outside the quarters assigned to the Romulan, and then outside those assigned to Worf and Martok, and then outside those assigned to Doctor Bashir and himself.

The quarters extended to the outer wall of the habitat ring. They included a viewport.

Garak stood silently, looking toward the viewport, until the soldiers left.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he bolted. He stood, staring out at the stars and planet, leaning against the sill, trying to catch his breath.

Bajor filled much of the viewport. It was a beautiful planet, covered with blues and greens of the water and the plants, and the browns of the deserts and the structures.

But looking at it didn't help much. He was still trapped in a small room on a small space station far from the openness of the planet below.

_Just breathe, Garak. Breathe._


	19. Chapter 19

Their quarters were much more generous than Julian had expected. Each included a small room with two beds, a larger area with upholstered furniture, a replicator, a small refresher, and a tiny viewport. Obviously intended for two people, they had been assigned accordingly. He and Garak were assigned one room, with Worf and General Martok in one adjoining room, and Shuraiel in the other.

“Thank you,” he said politely to the soldiers.

Both soldiers gave him a nod of acknowledgment before leaving the room. The door swung shut behind them.

Garak darted across the room. There was nothing graceful about the movement. He seemed desperate.

He stopped at the viewport and just stood there, leaning heavily against the sill, staring out as if his life depended on doing so.

He looked terrible. His scales were a sickly gray-white, and he was shaking badly and gasping for air.

Julian approached, moving slowly so as not to startle him, and reached for his temple and neck ridge to check his pulse.

Garak pulled away.

“It's just me, Garak. Hold still a minute, please.”

Garak managed the same staccato nod he'd given after he came out of the crawl space that first time.

Julian reached again.

Garak's shoulder twitched, but he didn't fight Julian's exam this time.

His pulse was racing, his breathing rapid, shallow, and labored.

“Garak. Take a deep breath. All right? Garak?”

No response. Garak no longer seemed to hear him at all. He was barely getting any air, and his eyes had lost their focus.

“Garak. Sit down,” he said loudly, trying to get through. He tugged gently on Garak's arm. Garak staggered a bit, evidently trying to catch his balance, and then his legs gave out.

Julian reached out in time to break his fall and help him lie down. He hurried across the room and grabbed his medical bag, took out his hypospray and quickly inserted a vial of Tri-Ox. He injected it quickly and turned back to his bag. He had three different sedatives with him, but only one was in use on Cardassia, and he had no way to know if it would work for Garak. Well, it was that or triptacederine, and that, while it worked well enough as a narcotic, had little, if any, sedative effect on Garak.

He inserted the sedative and injected it as well.

Fortunately, the Tri-Ox and the sedative seemed to work. Garak managed to draw in a breath, and another, and, gradually, to deepen and slow his breathing. He was still pale, and he didn't open his eyes, but after a few minutes, he stopped shaking.

Julian ran his medical tricorder over him. Garak's pulse and respiration rates were only slightly elevated.

It was fortunate he'd held it together as long as he had. Garak had seemed nervous even before they entered the turbolift. Julian had wondered, at first, if he was pretending; he was portraying “Sovan” as rather shy, at least with the other Cardassians. He would have expected Garak himself to be somewhat nostalgic about his return to the station; to enjoy the heat, the dimmer light, and the sound of his native tongue. But then he saw Garak's expression as they neared the turbolift. It was exactly the same expression he'd had before, right before he returned to his so-called “dungeon”.

He'd never seen Garak have trouble with the turbolifts before. It had surprised him at first, but then he realized Garak must be completely exhausted from the prison camp and his experiences there – the loss of his father, with what could only be construed as a grudging acknowledgment of the relationship, his vulnerability when they all found out about the severity of his claustrophobia, the grueling hours he'd spent sequestered within the cramped quarters within the wall, reprogramming the transmitter, knowing all the while that they all were depending on him – and from simple lack of sleep.

For a moment, a different image flashed through his mind: Miles, sitting, distraught, in the cargo bay, holding a phaser to his own head.

Recovery takes time. He knew that. Miles was much better now, but it had been extremely difficult for him, especially at first, to recover from what, from his perspective, had been decades of incarceration. And that was _Miles._ Calm, almost unflappable, in challenging situations – if somewhat irritable in some social interactions.

Calm and unflappable were not the words that would first come to his mind when thinking of Garak.

That horrible image from the cargo bay flashed through Julian's mind again. Only this time, it wasn't Miles. It was Garak, holding a Cardassian phase disruptor pistol. And then Garak was sliding down to the corridor floor, his eyes glazing over, telling Julian he was afraid he would not be having lunch with him that day.

Julian wiped his eyes, realizing he was crying. Silently, he thought.

But out of the corner of his eye, he saw Garak – living, breathing Garak – open his eyes and tilt his head in the way he had when he noticed something unexpected.

“Julian? Are you all right?” he asked.

Julian chuckled, despite his tears. “Am I _all_ _right_? My dear Mr. Garak, I was under the impression you hated that phrase. It … what was it again … it is the 'epitome of imprecision'?”

Garak sighed. “Yes, Doctor, that is quite true. Yet you Humans seem to … rely upon it a great deal. So much so it appears to be … expected, in certain circumstances.”

“Fair enough.” Julian wiped his eyes and looked back at Garak.

“You have not replied, my dear Doctor,” Garak chided him.

“Oh! I suppose you're right. Yes, I'm … I'm well enough. How are you?”

Garak raised an eye-ridge, and Julian realized he'd noticed the deflection. “I am … I'm _tired_ ,” Garak admitted.

Julian tried not to show his surprise. “Then get some sleep, Garak. It should be warm enough, here.”

Garak smiled. “It is _delightfully_ warm.” His smile faded. “I should be working to acquire the necessary parts for the warp drive, and for the chroniton emitter.”

“Tomorrow, Garak,” Julian said firmly. “Tomorrow is soon enough.”

Garak looked relieved. “Very well. Good night, my dear.”

“Good night.”


	20. Chapter 20

The replicator was not programmed to respond to tlhIngan Hol, Martok decided. Or it was not programmed with any Klingon food. Cardassian food would be fine, but he couldn't think of a single kind of Cardassian food. In the camp, the only food he'd seen any of the Cardassians eat was ration bars, which were not a Cardassian food at all. At the moment, the only Cardassian word he could think of was _kanar_ , which was a poor substitute for bloodwine.

<< _Zabu_ stew is … acceptable,>> Worf announced.

Martok smiled. _“Zabu!”_ he ordered.

The replicator produced what looked and smelled like an acceptable substitute for roast Qa'Da'.

<<That is not a stew,>> Worf commented.

<<I do not know the Cardassian word for “stew”.>>

Worf laughed. <<Nor do I.>> He turned to the replicator and repeated Martok's order. <<This will suffice.>>

The food was good, and the beverage Worf suggested, _gelat_ , close enough to _raktajino_ to be a tolerable substitute.

<<Now. We must make a plan.>> Martok announced.

<<Agreed, but the five of us must work together.>>

Martok inclined his head. <<Of course!>>

* * *

“That sounds like it might take some time to build,” Julian commented. “We should probably get started.”

Garak looked up from his padd. “That would not be advisable,” he said flatly.

<<Why not?>> Martok asked.

<<The _Obsidian Order_ monitors the replicators.>>

“What? All of them?”

“A record is kept of all of them, yes.” Garak tilted his head. “Not every replicator is actively monitored at all times.”

“Why would they monitor this one?”

“Dukat assigned us these quarters. If names were recorded, mine would have been flagged.”

“You didn't use your real given name.”

“True, and _Garak_ is not an uncommon family name. But it would be flagged.” Garak turned back to his padd.

“So, it would be best not to order items that could be used to manufacture Romulan plasma pistols from these particular replicators. Got it,” Bashir said.

<It is imperative that we obtain the necessary supplies soon enough that we can complete repairs and obtain all the necessary parts of the chroniton emitter and the modulator prior to the arrival of the Federation flagship,> Shuraiel said.

“That's true,” Bashir agreed. He looked to Garak, obviously waiting for his response, but the Cardassian didn't seem to notice the question.

“Garak?” the doctor asked.

“Hmm?”

“We need to get the supplies soon enough that we can finish the repairs before the _Enterprise_ arrives.”

“Yes.”

“How would you suggest we do so, if we cannot use the replicators?” Worf asked.

“We can use the replicators. We simply should not use the ones in our quarters. After the … the withdrawal, we can access replicators elsewhere, including the industrial replicators in ore processing for the larger components.”

“They left industrial replicators behind?” Julian asked incredulously.

“They are a part of the station.” Garak sighed. “I do not know what condition they were left in. Repairs may be necessary. But the standard replicators in people's quarters should be undamaged.”


	21. Chapter 21

It was late when Martok, Worf, and Shuraiel took their leave to return to their own quarters.

When the door opened, it was not to the empty corridor Julian had expected, but to a corridor bustling with Cardassian soldiers, carrying their belongings.

The two Klingons and Shuraiel stepped out anyway, keeping to the side of the corridor, while the Cardassians made way for them.

The door slid shut, and Julian turned to Garak.

Garak stood, not moving, staring at the shut door with an expression Julian wouldn't have wanted to see even on his worst enemy, if he had had one. He looked as if he had just lost everything he had ever cared about, all at once.

“I'm sorry, Garak,” Julian said, even though he realized those words weren't enough. They wouldn't change what Garak had lost.

Garak nodded, silently, and closed his eyes tightly.

Julian realized Garak was fighting tears. He knew he hated to feel vulnerable; of course he would consider tears a sign of vulnerability.

Remembering Garak's reaction the last time Julian saw him cry, back when his implant had malfunctioned, Julian turned away to give him privacy.

He heard soft footsteps; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Garak make his way to the viewport, no doubt watching ships carry his people away.

He wondered if it was worse that Garak had already been essentially exiled. Garak hadn't been close to anyone on the station even then, he knew. Would he now be thinking of lost opportunities? Or of whatever might have happened differently in his life if he hadn't done whatever he'd done that had led to his exile?

Julian busied himself with his list of materials to acquire for the necessary repairs to the warp drive and the nacelle, leaving Garak alone to watch the ships, when another question occurred to him. What if Garak thought he and Worf and the others were going to do to him what the Cardassians of _Terok Nor_ had done, and leave him behind?

He turned to tell him that wasn't their plan, but stopped himself. He didn't want to upset Garak again by intruding.

Instead, he took out two tea infusers, filled both with dried red leaf tea, replicated two cups of hot water, and added the infusers. He waited impatiently for the tea to steep, and then carried them to the viewport.

He offered one to Garak.

Garak took it with a murmured “thank you, Doctor”.

Julian sighed with relief. “Garak?”

“Hmm?”

“I'm not leaving you behind.”

Garak froze. After a long moment he started breathing again. He shifted his head slightly, as if he were watching Julian out of the corner of his eyes.

“We're all going back together,” Julian said. “You and me, Worf and General Martok and Major Shuraiel. We'll make it back. You won't be … stuck here again. Maybe you'll be stuck with us, though. I don't know if we'll make it back to our own time.”

“I – ” Garak's voice trailed off and he stood, silently, for a long moment. “Thank you, my dear … Julian. I … will not leave you here either.”

Julian smiled. “Thank you, Garak.”

Garak glanced at him sideways. “Elim. My … given name is Elim.”

It was Julian's turn to stare. He had wanted to call Garak by his given name for a while, but it didn't seem right. It wasn't Garak who'd told him that name. Well, actually, it was, but it wasn't Garak who'd told him that name belonged to him.

He smiled. “Thank you, Elim.”

Julian and Elim stood at the viewport in silence, watching the ships. For once, Julian didn't feel he had to say something. It was enough, just to stand there. Together.

Everything else could wait.


	22. Chapter 22

Garak lay on the bed, awake. It could be hours before the Cardassian withdrawal and transfer to Bajoran-Federation administration was complete. He did not know. Last time, he hadn't even known the withdrawal was happening. He'd heard the rumors, of course. He knew it was coming, eventually.

But when it happened, no one had told him.

After two nights without sleep and too much _kanar,_ he'd noticed nothing. Of course, sound did not carry well through the almost soundproof station walls, and his quarters, before the withdrawal, had had no viewport.

But he had expected someone to tell him.

He had thought he would go with them. Even if Tain continued his punishment in some way, he had not expected _total_ exile. He had not expected, even in his worst nightmares, to wake up one morning as the sole Cardassian on the station.

But that was exactly what had happened.

It was exactly what was happening now, except that this time, he knew.

He felt a tear roll down his face, and another.

He glanced at Julian. The doctor was asleep.

Garak turned on his side and allowed himself his misery. There seemed nothing else to do at the moment.

Julian had tried to comfort him; told him _he_ wouldn't leave him behind.

That had helped, more than the Doctor could possibly know.

At the same time, it hadn't helped at all.

Tain had left him behind.

Again.

The tears soon stopped, giving way to rising fury. How could Tain leave him behind? Hadn't he always done everything that man wanted him to do? _One_ _time_ he'd ignored his orders. Was that really enough for … this?

Furious, Garak rose from the bed and stalked to the viewport; stood there, fuming, glaring at the ships ferrying his compatriots away.

“Garak.”

Garak whirled about, snarling.

Julian didn't flinch. “You look like you could use some … something to do. We could start getting the parts together for the repairs to the warp drive and the nacelle, and for the chroniton emitter.”

 _He's trying to_ help, he told himself fiercely. Just like the last time … just like before. With the implant. He would _not_ lash out at him again. He would _not._

Julian didn't deserve that.

Julian stepped away, giving him his space. “I'll get us some tea,” he offered.

Garak managed a nod.

Julian stepped away and crossed the room to the replicator. The scent of fresh red leaf tea wafted through the room on the current of recirculated air, for the moment covering the station's typical artificial smell of uridium and other metals, plastics and fabrics, foods and drinks and cleaning supplies, despair and fear and anger.

Julian approached with the tea.

Red leaf tea. _Cardassian_ tea. But he wasn't really Cardassian anymore, was he? He was an exile. An … involuntary expatriate.

He didn't deserve genuine Cardassian tea. Tain would expect him to settle for replicated tea, or Human or Bajoran tea.

 _I_ am _Cardassian! No matter what Tain thinks!_

Garak took the tea. With an inarticulate cry, he flung it and the cup across the room. The contents spattered on the carpet, accenting the gray with an asymmetric blob of burgundy.

The cup slammed into the opposite wall and shattered.

 _Not unlike you, Elim,_ Garak thought. He grabbed Julian's cup and threw it, making a second burgundy spill and a second pile of shattered pottery.

“Better?” Julian asked sardonically.

“Not in the least,” Garak snarled. But he had run out of things to throw. He turned back to the window, breathing hard. His hands were shaking. He clenched them, so tightly his untrimmed claws punctured the microscales on both palms.

Julian kept quiet; gave him his space.

His hands _hurt._ Garak focused on the pain, clenching his hands as tight as possible. He grimaced at the unmistakable scent of blood; hoped the doctor wouldn't notice.

“Garak.”

“ _What?”_ he snapped.

“You're bleeding.”

“ _I am aware of that.”_

“Can you stop? With your hands, I mean?” Julian's voice was gentle.

Garak glanced at him.

Julian was watching him, yes, but he was calm, keeping his distance. Not trying to physically stop him. He was genuinely _asking_. Not demanding.

Garak tried to relax his hands, but that only made the shaking more obvious.

Just then, a pounding came from the door.

Garak backed away, his hands clenched tightly again. He collided with the sill and hissed in irritation.

“Garak. It's okay,” Julian said softly. “It'll just be Martok, or Worf, or Shuraiel.”

“ _Don't want to see them.”_

“I understand. Why don't you go wash up, and I'll talk to them.”

“ _Don't_ want _to – ”_

“ _Garak. Go.”_

Garak stared. Had the Doctor just spoken to him in _Kardasi?_

“ _Go!”_

It appeared so.

Garak obeyed. Inside the hygiene chamber, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It was no surprise Julian had not wanted the others to see him. He looked a frightful mess.

 _You have work to do, Garak. Julian and the others, they're counting on you._ He looked around. The chamber was equipped with a sonic sink and shower, of course, but also a water one. He turned the water on at full power, without adjusting the temperature, and lowered his head beneath. The water was _cold._ Cold enough to distract him from … things. He stayed under, coming up only when he needed to breathe.

He found a towel in one of the storage compartments and dried his face and hair, leaving his hands, as much as possible, until last. The towel was stained with red by the time he finished. But, he felt … better. Not calm, exactly, but … in control.

Julian was waiting for him. Actually he was sipping red leaf tea, but the way he looked at him, the moment Garak opened the door, suggested that he had been waiting.

“Doctor. I … seem to have … injured myself,” Garak said, carefully evading Bashir's searching look.

“May I treat your injuries?” Bashir asked politely, cautiously.

Garak nodded. He sat where Bashir indicated, closed his eyes, and held out his right hand.

Julian took his hand gently and held it steady with one hand while he ran the dermal regenerator over it with the other. He finished, and moved on to Garak's other hand. “All done,” he announced.

“Thank you.” Garak didn't look up.

He felt Julian's gaze. Sensed his intent to ask another question.

“We should get to work,” Garak deflected.

“All right. Can you and Shuraiel get started on the chroniton emitter? I think the two of you have the most experience with electrical engineering.”

“Yes.”

“Good. You can get replicate the components you'll need here – I mean, I know, not _here_ here. But one of the replicators in the Habitat ring. Martok, Worf, and I can get the reactant injector and the other bigger components from ore processing, or from the industrial replicators if we need to.”

“Very well.” Garak couldn't quite meet Julian's gaze. He knew the doctor was disappointed in him; knew he didn't trust him to do the work that needed to be done. Knew the doctor probably thought he needed to be under close supervision.

But that was not necessary. He _could_ work. He had to. “We should get started, my dear Doctor,” Garak said lightly.

Julian looked startled for a moment, but he covered his surprise quickly, “You're right. All right. Let's go find the others.”


	23. Chapter 23

The ore processing section of the station was deserted. All the remaining equipment had been turned off, but, fortunately, no one had taken the time to damage much. Most importantly, the industrial replicators were undamaged.

Julian typed in their orders manually, thus avoiding any problems with his heavily accented Kardasi pronunciation.

It did not take long to obtain everything they needed.

All three of them carried somewhat heavy loads as they left, but even on the Promenade nobody gave them more than cursory glances. Apparently nobody cared if they made off with old Cardassian equipment and scrap metal.

The Promenade was almost unrecognizable. It was a peculiar combination of festival site, filled with people dancing, singing, and cheering in celebration, and disaster area, covered with debris: the remains of the shanties that had housed the Bajorans, pieces of shelving, walls, broken glass, a displaced slab of transparent aluminum, shattered pottery … the remains of whatever had been dropped or thrown rather than packed up when the Bajoran people abandoned the shanties and made their way either to transports to return to Bajor or to more suitable housing that had become available once the Cardassian personnel left.

A few Federation officials and Bajoran militia walked about, inspecting the damage and talking amongst themselves and, occasionally, with one or another of the Bajoran celebrants.

Electrical components buzzed along the walls and ceiling, adding to the cacophony.

Lights flickered in a most disconcerting way.

Julian's head began to twinge with the beginnings of a headache.

Garak's shop had not been spared. It didn't really look like Garak's shop at all, without the neat displays and orderly arrangement of supplies, but now it looked only a little better than it had when Garak detonated a bomb within it to catch Odo's attention and acquire his unwitting protection from the assassin Tain had hired to kill him.

This time's Garak was nowhere to be seen.

Beyond Garak's shop, Quark's place was open for business. It was different than the facility Julian knew. Darker, and less ornamented, but recognizable as the station's bar and gaming establishment, and as busy as he'd ever seen it.

They had nearly reached the nearest entrance when Julian heard a turbolift door hiss open.

Garak stepped out.

Julian knew immediately this was the other Garak. He didn't look very different from his Garak, except for his distinctively Cardassian garments, but the expression of absolute horror as he looked out on the devastation and the partying on the Promenade, and the wreckage of his shop, made it obvious that the events of the previous night were something he had not expected at all.

Garak made his way through the crowd of Bajorans and Federation people as if they weren't there. He looked dazed. Fortunately, the Bajorans and the Federation people essentially ignored the lone Cardassian, simply stepping aside as he approached,

But then a group of Bajorans, singing loudly and dancing down the Promenade, made their way toward him.

Julian could tell exactly when they noticed him.

They stopped singing and dancing. And they looked at him as if he represented all that was bad about his people. The Occupation, the forced labor, every isolated incident in which a Cardassian, intentionally or not, harmed a Bajoran.

Garak saw them. He stared, terrified, for just a moment, and then he darted away and ducked inside his shop. A moment later, the door shut behind him.

Julian thought of what Garak had said, back when his implant had failed and he was trying to explain why he had decided to activate the implant permanently. It wasn't only that the lights were too bright and the temperatures too cold. Garak had also said the Bajorans on the station looked at him “with loathing and contempt.”

He had not mentioned hatred or fury. He certainly had not mentioned the desire for blood Julian imagined he'd seen in their expressions.

He had not mentioned the Bajorans coming after him in a mob.

How many times had that happened? How many individual Bajorans thought to avenge their losses suffered during the Occupation on such an easy target as the sole remaining Cardassian?

Even as a tailor, Garak must have feared for his life, probably more than once.

Yet he had not given up, except, of course, during those couple of weeks when the implant failed.

He stayed on the station, among people who hated him just because of who his people were. He stayed, and gained, if not the respect of _all_ the people on the station, certainly the respect of more than a few, as well as the acceptance, or at least the tolerance, of many more. Even some Bajorans tolerated the Cardassian tailor. Some became his clients.

“Doctor. We need to go,” Worf insisted.

Julian realized the Klingon had been trying to get his attention. “But Garak –” he started to protest.

“He will be fine.”

Julian knew “fine” was _not_ the right word.

He also knew there was nothing he could do for this time's Garak.

Reluctantly, Julian followed Worf and Martok through the crowd, past Quark's place, to the airlocks leading to the maintenance bay where the _Rubicon_ awaited the replacement parts they carried.

Martok activated the airlock, and they made their way down the corridor and into the maintenance bay, where his Garak and Shuraiel were already hard at work, removing the damaged components and awaiting the replacement parts.


	24. Chapter 24

Shuraiel closed the casing around the chroniton emitter, activated the tricorder, and nodded to Garak.

The Cardassian pressed a control on the remote, and the phase disruptor within hummed as it activated.

Quickly, Garak pressed the second control, and the disruptor went silent again.

Shuraiel checked the readings on the tricorder. <Chroniton particles detected,> she announced. It remained to be seen if enough would be generated by the makeshift device to create a wave powerful enough to transport the runabout through time at all, let alone to the proper time. It was even less likely they would be able to successfully modulate the chronitons in such a way as to send themselves back to the proper time.

However, that was the … “Plan B” _,_ as the Starfleet people and the Cardassian “tailor” referred to it.

All the device truly needed to do was to attract the attention of the “Prophets”. Chronitons were toxic to them. It was quite possible the Prophets would agree to send them back to the time from which they came, once they understood the problem. Certainly doing so would be preferable for them than experiencing the effect of the chroniton wave that was their next best chance for returning home.

<The device seems to be operating properly, Major,> Garak said. There was an impatient edge to his courteous words, and she noticed his glance around the runabout's lounge, in which they were working, toward its walls and its ceiling.

The room did not seem small, but she realized the Cardassian had a different perspective. He seemed to be nearing the end of his tolerance of the present location.

<Indeed. We should inform the others,> she offered.

Garak inclined his head. He stood quickly, caught his balance, and darted out the hatch and into the maintenance bay, where the others were occupied with repairs to the warp drive and the nacelle in which it was housed.

Shuraiel followed at a more sedate pace, allowing Garak to inform the others of their progress.

It had been interesting working with the Cardassian. He was obviously as clever and capable as the elder Cardassian, but he entirely lacked Tain's obvious disdain for everyone around him. Garak seemed to enjoy listening as much as talking – and he showed the courtesy of speaking in other people's preferred languages, as well as a curiosity and willingness to learn that was almost Rihannsu. If Tain spoke a word of Rihan, tlhIngan Hol, or Federation Standard, she had not heard him do so.

Likewise, the two Klingons and the Human showed a commendable level of competence with respect to the more simple mechanical repairs necessary for the warp drive, especially since not one was, by avocation or vocation, an engineer. The Cardassian, of course, was ostensibly a tailor by vocation, and perhaps by avocation, though that was clearly not the entire truth.

<Major, they are nearly complete,> Garak announced as Shuraiel approached. He had clearly attempted to school his expression into a calm and courteous mask, though his relief was evident. The Cardassian did not possess the capability of hiding his emotion that was expected of even a young adult Rihannsu. Of course, one could not expect the same level of competency from a different species; neither the Human nor the Klingons made any attempt at all at masking their emotions.

She did not find such blatant emotion particularly problematic. After all, she was no Vulcan.

Shuraiel inclined her head respectfully. The work had been done well, and would soon be complete.

It remained to be seen, of course, if they would have equal success at leaving the station, reaching the wormhole, and returning to their own time.


	25. Chapter 25

**Part 4: Back through the Wormhole**

**Chapter 25**

The wormhole spiraled open directly in front of the runabout. Garak closed his nictitating membranes and squinted against the light.

It was still too bright.

This time, it was Worf who piloted the ship, and Bashir who was in the co-pilot's seat.

Garak was not needed yet. He sat back in his seat behind Bashir, and closed his eyes.

The runabout slowed as it approached; a slight turbulence told him when it entered.

He opened his eyes and ignored the brightness.

<<General, deploy the emitter,>> Worf commanded.

<<Acknowledged.>>

Garak checked his viewscreen. <<Chroniton emitter deployed,>> he announced.

<<Good. Activate.>>

Garak pressed the control, waited eight micro-units of time, and deactivated the device.

“It's working!” Bashir announced. “Sensors indicate a seventeen percent increase of chroniton particles within the device!”

The runabout jolted and slowed to one-eighth impulse power. It jolted again, and this time, came to a complete stop.

_The Prophets._

Garak closed his eyes and put up his mental shield – a stone lair hidden amongst the sands of the Mekar Wilderness. He imagined himself safely hidden inside, the _regnar_ Mila seated comfortably on his shoulder.

Bashir and Worf were the Starfleet officers. _They_ could deal with the Prophets.

Something, or someone, approached his lair.

Garak tried to match his breathing to the _regnar's_ slow, steady breaths. Tried to diffuse his focus and energy. To be merely a part of the surroundings.

That was not at all easy, when the surroundings in which he imagined himself were not at all where he knew himself to be.

The … _presence_ … crept into his mind.

He was no longer safe in the lair with Mila.

He was trapped in the crawl space in the Internment Camp. Under the rubble on Tzenketh. Racing through the crumbling holosuite tunnel. Inside the closet, begging Tain, Mila, someone … _anyone_ … to let him out.

Taking shelter in his shop from a Bajoran mob.

Trapped in a holding cell, trying to distract himself by endlessly counting the minutes as they passed.

Back on the _Defiant,_ arguing with Worf about the importance of annihilating the Founders to save Cardassia and the entire Alpha Quadrant.

Lying on his back, his entire body aching, while Julian smiled at him and held his hand.

Sitting at a table across from the doctor watching and listening to him enthusiastically extol the virtues of a dreadful Terran novel.

Back in the runabout, explaining his idea for catching the attention of the Prophets, by creating a device to safely emit chronitons, enough to be detected by the Prophets.

The Prophets were non-linear, but they could recognize patterns. If they could recognize the temporal pattern from which the _Rubicon_ had arrived, they could send it back.

Explaining the other option, the one less likely to succeed: initiate a chroniton wave, modulated to, as closely as possible, match the inverse of the wave that sent them back to _Terok_ _Nor._ Perhaps such a wave could send them back. Not precisely to the time from whence they came, but perhaps close enough.

The runabout shifted abruptly. Garak could feel it moving, accelerating.

After a while, he realized that he was alone in his mind.

He opened his eyes.

They were still in the wormhole.

He did not know when.

He looked at Julian, but the Doctor was busy inputting something into his panel.

Worf was similarly occupied.

Martok and Shuraiel, like himself, were simply … waiting.

The runabout continued to accelerate until it shot out of the mouth of the wormhole.

Garak looked through the viewport.

He had never expected to be so pleased to see the station, but there it was, stationed within visual range of the wormhole.

Julian turned around in his seat and smiled at Garak. “You did it, Garak! You got us back!”

Garak raised his eye-ridges incredulously. “Hardly, my dear Doctor. I … observed.”

“Well, it was your idea that led the Prophets to help us. So, thank you!”

“Commander Worf piloted the ship. Major Shuraiel co-designed and built the emitter itself. General Martok enabled us to survive the Jem'Hadar attack in the first place. And you, Doctor, organized the … team … on _Terok Nor_ , to obtain the necessary materials.”

“All right,” Julian said with a wave of his hand. “So we all got us back. I don't suppose it matters so much. But we are back! Aren't we?”

“According to sensors, the _Defiant_ is docked at Lower Pylon 2,” Worf announced. “All ships detected are Federation or Bajoran in design. It is … probable … that we have returned to the proper time.”


	26. Epilogue

**Part 5: Back to Deep Space Nine**

**Chapter 26: Epilogue**

“That will not be difficult to ascertain,” Garak spoke up. “We are being hailed.”

“On screen,” Worf commanded.

Garak opened a channel.

Sisko's face appeared on Worf's viewscreen. “Welcome back, Commander, Mr. Garak. Doctor?”

“Yes. Yes, it's me,” Bashir said.

Garak thought he sounded nervous.

“Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“I see you've brought guests.”

“That is correct,” Worf said. “Captain, this is General Martok.”

Martok rose from his seat. “It is an honor to meet you, Captain,” he said. <<You have a fine crew.>>

<<Thank you, General,>> Sisko said. “I look forward to exchanging stories of our honorable exploits.”

Martok grinned. “As do I, Captain.”

He stepped back and took his seat.

Worf introduced Shuraiel. The Romulan, not surprisingly, was more reticent, but nonetheless polite. <I appreciate your crew's … hospitality, Captain. But I look forward to returning to my people.>

Garak tried to mask his flinch at her words. _He_ would not be returning to his own people any time soon.

The runabout jolted to a stop, and descended into the maintenance bay.

This time, the maintenance bay was uncomfortably bright.

When the airlock opened, no warm air drifted through.

Garak walked with the others through the airlock and onto the Promenade.

“Well, it's definitely Deep Space Nine,” Bashir commented, gesturing toward the garish banners displayed along the corridor and the variety of people, mostly Bajoran and Human, along with a substantial minority of Klingon, walking along the Promenade, dining at the various eating facilities, and otherwise occupied in the station's busy market sector.

Garak nodded in the Human gesture of assent.

He noticed something else. Nearly everyone who looked at him did so with completely neutral expressions. Others gave him quite courteous greetings. The loathing, disgust, and hatred he'd become so accustomed to had faded away without him noticing.

“Well, I plan to get an actual shower and a hot meal, and then sleep for a week,” Julian said brightly.

Garak looked at him sharply. Something about his tone told him it was feigned. “Doctor?” he queried.

Julian sighed. “I'm all right, Garak. It's just … the changeling was there, for a month. It … my quarters won't seem like _mine_.”

“Have Odo search them. He can do a phaser sweep, and ensure you have no other … visitors.”

Julian brightened. “I think I will. Thank you, Garak. You should get some rest, too.”

“I will, after I let Ziyal know I'm back.”

“Garak, you … might want to wash up a little first.”

“Ah. Yes, thank you, Doctor. I shall.”

“Would you like to get lunch tomorrow?”

Garak thought about it. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to retreat to his quarters, turn up the heat, and sleep. And Bashir had canceled every single lunch they'd scheduled over the last month … but that hadn't actually been _Julian_.

“All right, Doctor. Lunch tomorrow would be … acceptable.”

Julian sighed. “That wasn't a demand, Garak. If you don't want to, that's … you don't have to.”

Garak tilted his head. Julian looked … exhausted.

Garak doubted he looked any better.

But Julian also seemed … disappointed … by Garak's words.

Interesting.

“My apologies. I don't particularly want to do anything at the moment but sleep, in warm quarters. But I look forward to lunching with you tomorrow, Julian.”

“Excellent! I'll see you tomorrow, Elim. Good night.”

“ Good night, Julian.”


End file.
